My Seven-Week Marriage Compatibility Test

It all started with a selfie, a mother with a mission and five meddling housewives.

The selfie was of a man I had never met. Every morning, he snapped a photo of himself from the driver’s seat of his car in California and sent it to his mother in Israel. It was a daily act of devotion, proof that he was healthy and happy.

One day, she shared his photo in a WhatsApp group of friends. From there, it went through a string of enthusiastic aunties before landing in my inbox in San Francisco, courtesy of my “honorary mom” (a longtime family friend who never misses a matchmaking opportunity).

Subject line: “He’s new to SF. Want to meet him for a drink?”

Attached was a picture of a bald man in his early 30s, clean-shaven, with a big smile, wearing aviator sunglasses and a neatly pressed pink shirt that was a touch too bright. He looked like someone who made an effort. I was intrigued.

For me, at 27, dating had become something between a coping mechanism and a writing prompt. I had joined several sites that promised to help me find “the one,” and I was documenting my romantic disasters on a blog called NotMrRight.

Sure, I thought, I’ll go out for a drink with him. What did I have to lose? Even bad dates had value. At worst, it would be new content for my blog.

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