Chapter 2 An Experiment in Flirting with Brad Pitt
“Mom. Please don’t cry. I’m only going for a month. And I’ll call all the time. It’ll be okay.” I grabbed my mom’s hand and pulled her into a rare hug. It had been years since we were truly apart for any real length of time. Maybe I hadn’t thought enough about how my parents would cope without me.
“Oh, get a hold of yourself, Maya. I’m not crying, for goodness’ sake. I got hair spray in my eye this morning. Did you hear that, Morty? Unbelievable.”
“Love you too, Mom. Okay, so you have my instructions and feeding charts, right? And you have all of Ursula’s meds?
Be careful—she’s a biter. Don’t forget to make sure the electric litter boxes are cleaning themselves daily, otherwise Azriel will poop in your shoes.
And in the junk drawer is a box of those gooey liver treat things, just in case—”
“All right, all right. We’ve got it, pumpkin. Don’t worry. All the cats will be perfectly fine.” Dad pulled me in for yet another hug. “You just go and have fun. And who knows—maybe next time we see you, you’ll be bringing a nice young man home to meet us.”
“You hear that, God?” Mom held her hands out and looked up to the neon lights.
“Guys, this is about the show, not the matchmaking. You do remember that I do this for a living, don’t you? Because if you’re too senile to remember Kingfisher’s nose drops, then I’m canceling everything and going straight home.”
“Oh, hush. We’re just saying . . . you know . . . be open to it, that’s all.”
“Ma, the statistical likelihood of a random matchmaker finding me a life partner in only four weeks at thirty-eight years old after three hundred and twenty-two unsuccessful first dates is less than six-point-four percent. That’s out of a hundred. I already showed you the figures.”
“Not everything in life can be understood with charts and graphs, cupcake.”
“Of course it can. That’s the entire point of data analysis. Anyway, would you really want me to marry some backwater Irish farmer and end up covered in mud and living halfway across the planet? You’d hate that.”
“Would we? We could finally make your room into that sex dungeon we’ve been talking about, couldn’t we, Morty?”
“Just imagine the orgies! Your knitting club would love it.”
“They could bring potluck.”
“You guys. Are not funny. How many times do I have to tell you this?”
“We’re pretty funny.”
“Mom!”
“Fine. We heard you. Statistically improbable. Now, don’t forget to stand up straight, honey.” Mom put a hand on each shoulder and pulled them back as if my spine were a three-ring binder. “And let the men pay sometimes. Makes them feel important.”
“Are you hearing me? Because it kinda sounds like I’m being willfully ignored.”
Dad looked past me and down at Mom. “I don’t know, Dot. When you pick up the check, it always gets my engine going.” A little giggle bubbled from Mom.
“Ew. God. Stop it, you two! No wonder I’m so screwed up.”
“Oh, you did that all on your own, muffin. Okay, let’s hurry this up, because we’ve got the Applebaums coming over for canasta tonight.”
AN HOUR LATER I was sandwiched in the middle seat, listening to two complete strangers chew their pretzel mix while I scanned the movies on the little screen in front of me.
I didn’t mind flights, even long ones. I liked to have all those hours to just sit quietly and read and watch movies while people in uniforms brought everyone tiny portions of food frequently enough to keep us from complaining.
Though I could have done without the chewing in stereo and the accidental armrest elbow touching.
A Fate Inked in Blood was open and neglected on my lap. I had tried to read, but I couldn’t focus. Usually books were my safe haven, my coping mechanism. But I realized, with a little sinking feeling, that this time I was too distracted to be swept away to Skaland and get railed by a Viking.
I had been planning this trip for months and had even had a crackly telephone call with Jackie Kelly, the matchmaker, who apparently didn’t have Wi-Fi. “The only time I Zoom is when my pony gets a fright,” he’d said, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
I wasn’t nervous about getting matched with random men, and I had decided that I was even okay with living with a complete stranger for a week while he assessed my dateability.
I had spent the last year having strangers set me up on dates with other strangers, and while it had definitely been nuts, it had also been fun, for the most part.
But when Jackie had suggested I fly to Ireland early so that I didn’t miss the Matchmaking Festival, it had made my stomach turn over like an old carburetor.
I was entirely comfortable with public humiliation.
Strangely, I rather enjoyed having Simone pick me apart on-air for all the world to hear—I had rhino-thick skin, and if the people at home laughed half as much as we did in the studio, then it was a good day!
But crowds. Crowds were a different thing.
People. Meeting new people always held the potential to go wrong.
Despite a lifetime of rigorous study and experimentation, people were sort of a mystery to me.
Unpredictable, unreachable, unfathomable.
Like, why did some of them choose not to wear deodorant when they knew good and well what was going to happen?
Or why did people post pictures of their lunch on Facebook? I would never understand them!
But . . . it was just too good an opportunity for the podcast for me to turn down.
I had tried to convince myself that no one would want to listen to me going to a matchmaking festival, but I was a terrible liar.
It was going to be podcast gold, and I knew it.
I just needed to reframe the situation in my mind, change my lens, and handle my peopling with protocol firmly in place.
Protocol for the Matchmaking Festival:
Objective: To conduct informal ethnographic observation of sociocultural courtship behaviors displayed during the Matchmaking Festival without freaking out or acting like a weirdo.
1. Refrain from conceptualizing the festival as one hellish mega-date. Instead, adopt the stance of a participant-observer immersed within the social milieu, collecting data in situ.
2. Remember that the crowd is a good thing, as it provides both concealment and a degree of social anonymity.
3. Utilize Loop earplugs to moderate ambient noise exposure. Should crazy-ass shenanigans become excessive, you have every right to get the hell out of there.
4. Wear clothes that will not make you angry. Never forget that one time when wearing an underwire bra made you yell at a stranger.
5. In the event of unwanted tactile interaction, articulate boundaries clearly and disengage. Note: Insults may be deployed at will.
6. Should an individual issue a marriage proposal, do not run. Acknowledge their interest, decline courteously, and politely explain that you have cats.
“Gingersnap?”
“Huh?”
“Would you like a biscuit, dear?” The lady with the aisle seat next to me shook a large, store-bought package of cookies at me. She reminded me of my aunt Selma.
“Oh! That’s nice. Um, sure. Yes, please.”
“Don’t make me eat this entire bag on my own.” She had an Irish accent. I guessed she was going home. “What about you over there? You look like you could use a few biscuits as well.” She reached across my lap and shook the bag at the guy in the window seat.
He took his headphones down and grabbed a cookie. “Thanks! I love these—haven’t had them in years.”
“Help yourself!” She settled back, adjusted her seat belt, and returned her focus to me. “So. What are you flying to Ireland for?”
I didn’t really want to have this discussion, I would much rather get back to the sexy Vikings, but I took a moment, straightened a little, and got over myself. Maybe I could learn something.
“Actually, I’m headed to the Matchmaking Festival in Lisdoonvarna. Do you know it?”
Her eyebrows shot up and her face split into a massive grin. “Are you joking me? I used to go every year for the dancing!” She gave me a wink that made me wonder if it was a double entendre. “Lots of good music there.”
“Really? Did you ever meet Jackie Kelly?”
“That old sly fox? You’ll be careful around him, if you know what’s good for you!”
Oh no. My heart sank, and I felt it thunk off every rung of my rib cage on the way down. He was a creep. Oh God.
“Really? What kind of things should I be worried about, exactly?”
“You should worry about him having you off and married by the end of the week, that’s what!”
A surprised laugh shot out of me so loudly that a few people turned around in their seats.
“Are you talking about the Matchmaking Festival?” The man next to me leaned in to join the conversation without invitation. I guess that’s what people do on planes. “That’s where I’m going!”
The woman, who I’d assumed had already reached peak excitement, got several decibels louder. “You don’t say! To Lisdoonvarna as well? What are the chances?”
“Yeah! My buddy is marrying an Irish girl, so he’s having his bachelor party at the festival. I think he’s trying to get us all hitched so he’s not the only one.”
“Well, a strapping lad like yourself should have no trouble. No trouble at all.”
“Ha! Here’s hoping! I’m Chad, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
Chad. He reached over me in an unnecessary move to shake hands with the lady as if they were in a business meeting.
“Sheila. And this is . . .”
I looked up at the pause and realized that she was gesturing to me. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m Maya. Hi.” He put his hand out and I shook it at close range, and then I awkwardly did the same with Sheila.
Then she waggled her eyebrows.
And finally I caught on. Like I could see into the future—I knew exactly what she was about to do. I wished the oxygen mask would drop down and give me some fucking air.
“So, you’re both going to Lisdoonvarna for the festival? It’s almost too good to be true, isn’t it? Maybe you can have a dance when you’re there. You should really exchange numbers!”