Many months ago, I allowed a woman I vaguely know to set me up on a blind date. She's someone who happens to travel in the same circles as my mother - and by "same circles," I mean they see each other at weddings, Bar-Mitzvahs and funerals. It was at one such event in a chapel in Brooklyn where my date with The Yawner was arranged. As the mourners shed their tears over the passing of a loved one, my mother and this woman worked out the details of a setup the seeds of which could not have been planted at a more appropriate venue. I can only imagine how the conversation went down:
My Mother: Do you have anyone for my son?
The Woman: I have a friend who has a daughter. She's in her mid-30s and has a vagina. I think they'd be perfect for each other.
My Mother: Make it happen.
I wasn't given The Yawner's phone number, and the oh so clever introductory email I sent her got immediately bounced back. I took the message from the Mail Delivery System as a sign and decided not to tell the woman that she'd given me a bad email address. I hoped that the whole thing would just go away. But before I could forget the chick's name and throw out the Subway napkin on which I scribbled her incorrect email address, my phone rang.
"So did you email her?" the voice on the other line asked with bated breath.
"I tried, but the address you gave me is wrong," I said.
"Hold on. It's ******email@example.com. Wait, maybe it's hotmail...or aol. How are you spelling her last name?"
"Exactly how you told me - *******."
"Try *********," she said. "Maybe that'll work."
"Emails are kinda like phone numbers," I explained. "They have to be exact."
"I'll call you back with her phone number," she said before hanging up, and before I could say, "Please, don't bother."
Within five minutes, the woman called back with The Yawner's number and insisted that I call right then and there. I believe the phrase she used was: "she's waiting for your call." If there's one thing I dislike more than completely random setups where the matchmaker makes no real effort to actually insure that the two people in question are a match, it's a matchmaker who's a pest. I told her I'd call as soon as possible, and I did that evening.
The date was uneventful until about an hour or so in when my companion let out a huge yawn. And by huge I mean one of those yawns that are so over the top they seem fake - like the person acting out the yawn wants to send a clear message that they're bored and wants very much to be elsewhere. I received the message loud and clear, paid the check immediately and wished her well before we went our separate ways. I found it ironic that she was the one who felt the need to yawn since I had spent forty-five minutes listening to her describe what she did for a living. I can't recall what it is she said she does, but I remember nodding a lot and saying, "cool" every so often, as she told me.
When my mother called me a few days later to see if I'd gone out with The Yawner, I told her what happened.
"Maybe she was just tired," she said in The Yawner's defense. "Yawning is a normal bodily function."
"So is farting," I said. "But there's a polite way to do it and an impolite way. I don't lift up on one cheek and ask my dates to pull my finger."
"Oh well. Forget about her then," she said.
And I did until last week when the woman who set us up approached me at a Bar-Mitzvah I couldn't get out of attending.
"So ***** is engaged," she said to me, clearly trying to make me feel like I lost out.
"Great," I said. "Good for her."
"He's a great guy. A doctor."
"I'm sure they'll be very happy together."
"Oh, she's ecstatic. Absolutely ecstatic."
"Well, I wish her the best."
"Now we have to get you married off!"
"That's okay. I'm good," I said, fake yawning.
"Whatsa matter? You're tired?" she asked.
Just of you and this conversation, I thought.
"Try not to yawn," she said. "There are some single women here. No one likes a yawner."
Oh, the irony, I thought. Luckily, someone came over and pulled her away. A few more seconds of her condescension and I would have asked her to pull my finger.