This is a little… immature, but maybe it’s because he’s my age, and he hasn’t been dating as long as I have

The magic words? “I’m 25.” They turn a smile to a sympathetic frown, induce sighs in strangers, prompt prying questions. What am I looking for? What do I have to offer?

And the unspoken, What’s wrong with you?

I don’t personally think there’s anything wrong with me. I’m average, not too pretty or too skinny or too outgoing. My glaring flaw is that I’m not married, not for lack of trying. My mother is a shadchan — professional, the kind who gets results — and she’s handpicked the bevy of boys I’ve dated. But my dates have gone nowhere. He ends it after two dates. I end it after three. It’s just never been right, never a connection that isn’t supremely superficial.

Does it eat away at me? Sometimes. But it makes me better at my job. Girls are more willing to speak to me because I get them. “Shidduch counselor?” they repeat to Ima, and she nods enthusiastically.

“Miriam does the handholding,” she says. “Sometimes you want to talk with someone who isn’t invested, you know? She’s there, pre-date and post-date, for all your needs.”

Which means I’m at my office all morning, deconstructing dates with anxious girls, and on my phone all night, waiting for frantic mid-date calls from the bathroom. “He still hasn’t taken off his jacket,” Shaindy Gottesmann whispers into the phone one Wednesday night. “That’s weird, right?”

“Not necessarily,” I say. “Aren’t you outside? It’s winter.”

“I know,” Shaindy says miserably. “I’m so cold!”

Once I talk Shaindy into putting on her own coat, I meet with Mrs. Kassover, who has specifically demanded my services and is only available in the evenings (except when she, abruptly and inconveniently, suddenly requires a daytime appointment). I don’t usually talk to the mothers, but Ima’s reached her limit with Mrs. Kassover, an old acquaintance who’s become a full-time job now that her son is in shidduchim. Ima’s suggested that Mrs. Kassover use other shadchanim, but out of some masochistic desire to win this one, I’ve agreed to work with Mrs. Kassover instead. She strides into my office, a whirl of designer clothing and forbidding eyes, and sits imperiously. “This girl has curly hair,” she intones.

I twist my orange-red curls between my fingers. Mrs. Kassover is a pro at making anyone feel inadequate. “Sima’s amazing. She works with kids with special needs and has a degree and could easily support your son’s kollel lifestyle—”

“Eli won’t date a curly-haired girl. Imagine the children.” Mrs. Kassover shudders. “You have more résumés for me.” More résumés. Her son hasn’t dated anyone we’ve suggested, but she’s back weekly, dismissing each girl. Ima considers her meetings a waste of time, but I still want to beat this one.

On résumés, at least, I can be firm. “You know our policy. One résumé at a time. These are girls, not goldfish.”