The Hollywood Montage Cuffing season was upon us, and good news started pouring in from clients. Aside from a few recent pairings going well, word on the street was that Don and Evie, a couple I’d introduced a couple of years back, were talking about taking “next st eps” in their relationship. Don, a PR exec, had stood out initially, because he’d insisted he was drawn toward a more “homely” look (it’s not a descriptor we often hear). But after introducing him to Evie, we realized he wasn’t looking for someone “homely” at all, but rather someone who felt like home. I wondered what their “next st eps” would be. Would he and Evie move in together—or fulfill every matchmaker’s ultimate dream by getting engaged? When it comes to successful outcomes in a relationship, there’s no right “order” to things. I’ve seen couples get engaged after only dating a few months, have babies before getting married, and move in together before getting engaged— and those people are still together, and happy, decades later. But I do believe holding firm to your preference, whatever that might be, can speed up an eventual outcome. My very traditional mother always taught me that a man is less likely to “buy the milk” when he can “get the cow for free.” (I prefer to think of moving in together as an “expensive fur coat” and the woman as an “elegant snow leopard,” but why argue over semantics?) Not wanting to chance her being right, I clung to my West Hollywood apartment before Dave and I got engaged—a move he saw as a “waste of money,” and a mere technicality since I was sle eping at his condo on the other side of town nearly every night. “You can’t really know someone unless you live with them first,” he said, echoing a sentiment I’d heard dozens of friends and clients express before him. And to help convince me of this logic, he’d made every effort to make his place feel like “ours.” He made room for my clothes in his closet, helped assemble a cabinet for my toiletries, and even let me r eplace his beloved mid-century modern sofa—an affront to my preference for a more bohemian aesthetic. To some extent, he was right that moving in together could help us learn more about our general compatibility—how else would I have discovered that he went to bed early to wake up at an ungodly hour the next day to work out? And how else would he have learned about my disinterest in making the bed—a slothful move he categorized as “barbaric”? Still, I’m not convinced that learning those things before an engagement or marriage would have made a difference—after all, those lifestyle choices might be inconvenient for the other, but neither would come close to outweighing the reasons we chose to be together. Our hybrid living dynamic suited us, though. It allowed us to spend more time together while preserving my feeling of safety. Ke eping my apartment, even in name only, was what I needed to feel confident and comfortable, but what worked for me might not for someone else. I wondered what Evie and Don would need to feel confident and comfortable. I hoped that whatever that was, they were both on the same page about it. In addition to Evie and Don’s exciting but nebulous update, more positive ones followed. An Emmy-winning writer, a popular Tik Tok influencer, and the real-life subject of a Netflix anthology series all activated memberships the same week, as did a celebrity assistant. I soon realized the latter had dated one of my ex-boyfriends, and she’d only learned at the end of their brief relationship that she was his “side piece.” He was married with a kid now, but had misled her into believing he and his wife had been s eparated at the time. Still a schmuck, she confirmed to me when we met. “I’m so sorry,” I empathized, imagining what might have happened if he and I had stayed together.
“Did you tell his wife?” “No.” She wavered. “Should I have?” I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’d never met his wife, but from all accounts, she sounded sweet, intelligent, and accomplished. Aside from her weakness of choosing the wrong men, my new client seemed like a catch too. (At least our mutual ex had taste.) I also had a string of sign-ups who were disgruntled former clients of various industry giants. One of them, Kathy, was fifty-one, five-foot-eight, and a statuesque blonde with a bank account the size of her appetite in men. I admit, I was surprised that after just dropping a hundred thousand dollars at a matchmaking company that didn’t live up to her expectations, she was more than willing to try mine (but I was glad she was). She ranted about her past experience, which included signing a nondisparagement clause after receiving a partial refund—a common practice at some of these larger companies. (Going to great lengths to maintain a favorable public image is not unusual. Many owners hire firms who specialize in online-r eputation management.) I considered how to help her. A confident and intelligent strategic consultant, Kathy also had a cheeky personality. “The only green things I love are money and emeralds,” she’d told me when I asked how outdoorsy she was. She’d also insisted she didn’t want to be a “nurse or a purse” when specifying her desired age range. At first blush, she appeared to be a “catch,” and my guess was that the other company’s database simply didn’t support the type of men she was seeking. (Kathy had mostly been presented with struggling actors and musicians, some of whom didn’t even live in-state, which was the total antithesis of the private-island-owning, local venture capitalists “sold” to her during her initial consultation.) What’s more, her matchmaker had defended the matches, insisting they were “first-rate” because they were “hot” or “owned property”— no reasoning as to why they were particularly well suited for her. Some of these business owners, I thought, should be selling cars—not matchmaking. If our industry had even more regulation, perhaps they would be. Years ago, matchmaker and businesswoman Lisa Clampitt noticed the lack of continuing education, certification process, and strong community for modernday love connectors, and founded the much-needed Global Love Institute (formerly known as the Matchmaking Institute) in 2003. Through her courses, over two thousand matchmakers and relationship experts from more than twenty-five countries—including yours truly—have become certified. She also initiated the world’s first global love conferences. What Lisa has done for our community is tremendous, including her twelve-week curriculum and optional courses, exposure to collaboration opportunities, and offer to serve as mediator during professional conflicts. But there’s more work to be done. Being entrusted to help someone on their journey to find love is a huge responsibility, and can be closely linked to a client’s mental health. Therefore, a governing body for our industry should not only include an ethics code that our members must abide by, but also consequences should we break it—akin to what the American Psychological Association, the American Association for Marriage and Family Therapy, and the American Counseling Association demand. While the bar of entry is higher for those associations, and should be, more pillars should be in place to help protect our clients. As it stands, they have little to no recourse if they feel harmed, or taken advantage of, by services rendered. In our industry, some customer dissatisfaction is unavoidable—it’s virtually impossible to “get it right” for everyone during a process that’s so subjective. But some companies sacrifice outcome for profit, whether it’s out of greed or ignorance, and those shortcuts can be damaging. As I conducted a de eper dive on Kathy’s preferences, one in particular concerned me. Under no circumstances did she want to meet any Asian men. This was a sensitive subject, as I view parameters like that as inherently racist— after all, no one race or ethnicity is a monolith, and she couldn’t possibly know her capacity to be attracted to someone
she’s never met before. I was careful to express curiosity rather than judgment, though. After all, when I first started matchmaking, I used to ask for clients’ preferences on race or ethnicity in my intake interview—the same way I’d ask their political and religious beliefs. But a Facebook post by a colleague, Carmelia Ray, challenged my views on that. “Is it racist if someone excludes a particular race in their dating preferences?” she posed to the group we were in at large. The responses were widely divided. Some felt it was our job to honor all clients’ preferences, and likened the situation to someone expressing a preference for blondes or brunettes. Preferences are different from dealbreakers, though. Unlike religion or politics, race itself is rarely tied to a difference in values, and alone shouldn’t prevent two people from connecting. Similarly, I would think it absurd if someone categorically ruled out a potential husband or wife over their hair color. After much reflection, I landed on eliminating the race-based question I had on my intake interview, r eplacing it with: “Have you ever dated outside your race or ethnicity?” The question wasn’t suggesting whether someone should or shouldn’t. Instead, the answer would offer valuable insight into a prospective client’s dating practices, and just how open they really were. Some people have responded with a straightforward “yes” or “no” while others have elaborated, sharing that although they historically hadn’t dated outside their own race, they were more than open to doing so. Others have taken the opportunity to share which races they were opposed to meeting romantically, or shared even more specific requests such as favoring light-skinned people over dark-skinned people (a racist practice known as colorism). Many of these people don’t view their preferences as racist, and I am not looking to label them. But I actively want to work with clients who are able to recognize their shortcomings, and have a desire to correct them, as they are certain to be holding these daters back. Most of the time, someone’s implicit bias stems from a lack of exposure to a particular group of people (explaining why I saw an uptick of women interested in Asian men after the release of the movie Crazy Rich Asians), and when appropriate, I’m glad to give them some. Kathy is white, but I’ve also worked with many minority clients who have preferences about dating within their own race—and in those cases, I try to honor that. I can’t possibly know the negative experiences and challenges someone has faced as a member of a particular minority group, and it might help them feel more connected emotionally to a partner who can relate. When the opposite happens, such as when Meera claimed other South Asians reminded her too much of family, I try to get them to reconsider if the match I have in mind is strong enough. (If I’d honored my husband’s preference to avoid all Jewish women, we wouldn’t be together!) While I don’t fashion myself the arbiter of romantic racism, when it comes to matchmaking, I do try to remove race from the equation whenever possible, and shared that with Kathy. She heard me, and reassured me she would remain open if I ever had a match in mind who differed from what she currently envisioned for herself. “After all, you’re the expert,” she conceded. I could tell she was going to be a challenging client, but for now, her deference on the subject was enough. That week, I was also delighted to be setting up a local gay matchmaker who didn’t want to dip into his own client pool. Some matchmaking companies won’t work with LGBTQ+ singles—they don’t have enough database members to offer them—but I’d been determined to build out a dating pool that could cater to them too. Doing so had taken time, but it was a really rewarding and worthwhile investment. It had also been de eply educational. Early on, when I’d made it a point to acc ept any quality referral, I was frustrated by the lack of success I was having in the LGBTQ+ community. It took a straightforward conversation with my
husband’s single friend Adam, during his intake interview, to realize what the problem was. “I mean for me, and nothing against these types of people,” he started, sounding a bit self-conscious, “but I’m not really into bears, or more effeminate folks, and nothing wrong with bald or salt-and-p epper hair, but they aren’t really my type. And absolutely no name-droppers or anyone who wears tank tops,” he told me after I inquired about his dealbreakers. “Oh, and no one who shaves their body or posts thirst-trap selfies.” I nodded, frantically writing all of this down. “I’m a top, by the way. You normally ask your clients that, right?” “Should I?” I leaned in curiously. I’d never asked my straight clients about their sexual habits before, unless they volunteered to share (most do if they’re into BDSM or kink, or if they lack experience entirely). “Yes!” He laughed as if stating the obvious. “They’ll feel safer with you, like you actually know what you’re talking about.” “Really?” I was sk eptical. “Trust me.” And he was right. Until then, I’d been conducting intake interviews with queer clients the same way I was for my cisgender, straight singles, which didn’t inspire much confidence. The relief on my colleague’s face when I asked him about sexual preferences—among other subtler, more thoughtful questions about his lifestyle and taste—confirmed this. While a goal was to monetize the LGBTQ+ portion of my membership, once I had the database to support it, the larger goal was—and will continue to be— to set up as many successful couples as possible. When scrolling through the “Success Stories” section of my website, I want the page to reflect the diversity of all the clients I work with. I wasn’t sure what kind of child I was going to bring into the world one day, but knew that I would want them to feel acc epted, and supported by, a company like mine, regardless of their background.