If you were actually good at matchmaking, your track record would yield a percentage higher than 0%. You blame your lack of success on the shallow baby pool of eligible bachelors in your sphere of influence. How can you find suitable mates for your abundance of eligible girlfriends (let alone yourself) when the baby pool holds an inch of stagnant water that just produces mosquitoes you want to swat? So when you hear tale of a young adult singles mixer put on by several churches in the area, you decide to take several of your single eligible girlfriends on a search for their future husbands at the miniature golf course. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a hole in one for yourself.
On your way to the miniature golf place, you realize that crevices you never knew you had begin to sweat. You crank up the air conditioner when it’s only 62 degrees outside. You’re thankful you happen to have a stick of deodorant in your bag and you reapply. Generously. You’re not sure what anxiety attacks are, but you’re pretty sure you feel one coming on. You pull into the parking lot and see a group of people standing in front of the main entrance. Your breathing begins to sound like a woman in labor. Having sextuplets.
You are pretty sure this is going to be more awkward than a trip to see the gynecologist. At least you don’t have to worry about your gyno asking for your number afterwards.
Your friend who RSVPed online says she’s pretty sure the last time she checked there was only one guy signed up to attend. You park and peer over the dashboard expecting to see a circle of females dancing around one socially awkward guy in the middle not unlike a tribal dance of a Pacific Island country. Instead, you see 12 girls and 5 guys standing around awkwardly in no circular or remotely geometric pattern whatsoever.
You decide to get outside the car and nonchalantly walk by the group to see if any of the five men are eligible contenders. After all, they don’t know who you are or what you look like. They only know the name of your friend who RSVPed online. You’re safe.
Upon closer examination you notice that all the males look like they attended high school in their living room and one man in particular looks at least 75 years old. And he’s sporting a cane.
Resist all urges to scream “GRANDPA?!”
That’s when one of the guys looks in your direction and yells “SHANIQUA (real name of friend protected along with her damaged pride)? IS THAT YOU?”
You turn to your friend who RSVPed online and she looks at you and you look at your other friend. You are caught in a triangular staring contest. The sun is shining and the air holds the promise of fall. And your hair looks pretty good today if you do say so yourself. After all, you haven’t played mini golf in a while. It would be fun. After all, age ain’t nothing but a number. Grandpa may be your hole in your one—he may have saved up enough money in the past 60 years to pay off all your school loans.
That’s when your sweat glands go into overdrive and your shoes squeak as you pivot 180 degrees and take off sprinting towards the car. You and your friends jump in and you burn rubber as you speed as far away from the miniature golf course as possible towards home.
Decide to put your faith into a Heavenly Matchmaker whose track record allows Him to lead you to any pool He pleases. In-ground, above ground, baby pool, or on the rare circumstances, a really clean pond.