I slap on some lipstick and check my appearance on my phone, thinking about what I want to say. I don’t have to think too long or too hard. Rob, or possibly Rory, has made it easy for me, or whoever’s in this hot seat. There’s a laminated card on the back of the seat with a list of prompts and suggestions for what to talk about.
Introduce yourself
Tell us why you decided to be a part ofPlaying with Matches
Do you think this experience could be life-changing for you?
Have you tried any dating apps or matchmaking services in the past? How did that go?
What are you hoping to get out of this experience?
Do you believe in soul mates?
Why do you think dating apps work (or not)?
Who would you be most likely to swipe right on?
What is your ideal first date?
What are you looking for in a partner?
Here we go. I settle back into the soft leather and hit the red button.
“Hi, my name is Isla Fairfax, and I love to make matches. You might be familiar with some of the couples I’ve set up in my Mystic Matchmaker Romance Series. But what you might not know about me is that nothing makes me happier than making matches in real life.”
I pause the recording while I think for a moment.
“Keep going; you’re doing fine. Tell us about matchmaking!” the driver prompts.
“Fine,” I say and hit record again.
“My theory about matches is not so much that everyone has one perfect mate. But I do think a lot of it has to do with getting the timing right. There’s a reason so many love stories start with an awesome meet-cute. It’s like a chemical reaction. All the right ingredients have to be there at the right moment, and poof! Alchemy!”
I pause the recording again, but only for a moment, to catch my breath. I’m on a roll now.
“Sometimes it’s hard for us to see the big picture. We can’t zoom out of our own lives and see all the possibilities. But other people can see them for us. I can see that my friend who keeps swiping right on guys from her gym would be more likely to meet the man of her dreams at a bookstore. Sometimes people need to get forced out of their comfort zones to shake things up.”
Here I pause again, but I keep the camera rolling as I briefly look out the windows at the pastel colored buildings and lush green landscape flying by. In between, I keep catching teasing glimpses of the clear blue water in the distance. So very different from Rome, London, and even California. Here the palm trees look rooted. They don’t seem fake.
“When I write meet-cutes in my novels, I think about the people involved and whatever ruts they might be in. My characters rarely like the situations they get tossed into by me. I’m like an emotional hot waxer. It’s embarrassing, and it's painful. But ultimately… it’s worth it.”
I hit pause and groan.
Emotional hot waxer?Did I really just say that? Where did that come from? Good Lord. I’m one hundred percent positive they are going to use that idiotic clip. There’s no rewind button. What have I done?
I ought to stick a sock in it now, but of course I foolishly keep going. Now that I’ve started to opine, I cannot seem to shut up.
“I guess I just want to do this show because it feels like it’s part of my calling? Making great matches on the page is one thing, but doing it in real life feels more meaningful. It makes me feel like I’m doing my part to make the world a happier place. I want to spread a message of hope to people. Hope, love, and magic. Because love IS magic. We’re so caught up in petty things - appearances, trends, and technology. We’ve handed over so much control of our lives to algorithms that I fear a lot of us are losing our ability to trust ourselves, and where does that leave us? Alone. Frightened. We need to be able to trust in what our guts and our intuition are telling us before we can open ourselves up to the universe of possibilities. How can we ever trust ourselves enough to fall in love if we can’t trust ourselves to make simple decisions with our hearts? Scary stuff, right?”
I hit pause. The driver whistles.
“You just gonna leave me hanging like that? You can’t stop now, Miss Isla. I know you have more to say!”
I picture Jackson in the boardroom last week, wringing his hands, feeling sorry for me. But he’s the one who is worthy of pity. Him with his vision of toilet roll placement compatibility in lieu of a cosmic connection.
“I don’t know. Maybe it sounds a little crazy,” I sigh.
“No, it doesn’t. It sounds like you are some kind of a love prophet to me. Come on… you know you want to say it,” the driver cajoles.
