My mother claims to be a matchmaker.

Apparently, she’s responsible for 3 successful marriages (each couple has been together for 15 years or more). Maybe it’s the Irish in her. But despite her excellent track record, I always tell her it’s a wasted skill.  In the 25 years she’s been my mother, she’s failed to match me with anyone. Like most mothers, she’s good at telling me she doesn’t like the guy I’m seeing (but unlike most mothers, usually she’s right, he’s a dud), yet so far, she hasn’t offered up any viable alternatives. I blame it on the fact that she waited too long to have me. All her friends’ good looking sons were already married by the time I was old enough to be “matched.” Oh! And she then had the nerve to retire from banking when I was a freshman in high school —  she couldn’t hang in long enough to be able set me up with any of her summer college interns, new hires, or the eligible sons of her co-workers. Pretty inconsiderate, if you ask me.

But today, she tried to make up for her failures as my mother, the matchmaker.

She had an appointment with her orthopedic surgeon — it was time for her two-year post-hip-replacement check-up. Her surgeon is not some run-of-the-mill doctor. He’s a pretty big deal — head of surgery for a renowned New York hospital, hip-refurbisher of the famous, patron of the arts, general all around good guy — you mention his name, and other doctors bow. Did I mention he has a good-looking son? Who’s getting his medical degree from a certain Ivy-League University that gave me two degrees? Who has a BA in art history from another Ivy-League college, where he was also an athlete?  Who is a “young collector?” No, I didn’t?

Sounds perfect, doesn’t he? My mother thought so too.

In fact, my mother was so sure this son was destined to be her future son-in-law, that she forgot the main purpose of her office visit (her hurting hip). And so, the matchmaker in her reportedly kicked in. She ignored the fact that this Glory Boy has a girlfriend (who the parents don’t like!), and droned on to the poor doctor about me — apparently, I’m an Irish Catholic who writes on German Impressionists (it’s Expressionists, mom, and when was the last time I went to service?). Eventually, she caught the Doc’s interest.

“How old is she?”

“24.”

“Perfect. Is she dating anyone?”

“Not seriously. She has a lot of boy friends” (read: she’s totally single, completely available)

“You know, he works here.”

“I’ll bring her next time.”

“They’re going to have to have coffee.”

Success? Hmm, of a sort.

“Now, get up and walk for me.”

“What? We’re not done?”

“No.”

Caught. That’s right. My mother acts as if she was finally finding me my match. But really, talk of me was just a distraction tactic — get to the end of the session before the doctor has a chance to see me lurch around the room, that’s what she was really thinking. I know I was just a means to an end: an extra-large prescription of vicodin.

Thanks, mom. Glad I could help you out. Guess you’re not my Patti Stanger just yet…