FROM CHAPTER FOUR
For the next month or two, with increasing frequency, I’d find myself logging on to the Matchmaker web site, not in a hunt for romance, but as an incredulous spectator of this revealing phenomenon. Each time, as I’d pull up listing after listing of women declaring how equally comfortable they were in evening gowns as in jeans, or how little the location of a date mattered as long as they enjoyed the company of the man they were with, I’d shake my head, not believing how mercantile and impersonal it all seemed—complex human beings willingly reduced to billboard versions of themselves, all in a hungry quest to sell the notion of their love-worthiness. The pathology of it all was deep and fascinating, as engrossing as any good novel, and as with any gripping page-turner, the more I read the less able I was to pull myself away. This was entertainment of the highest order—it had ethos and pathos, comedy and tragedy, all playing out within a setting undeniably pregnant with the prospect of sex and romance.
Pass me the popcorn!
Then, one lonely Saturday night in early July of that year…
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