“Handsome, clever and rich,” I always felt there was a lot to like about Jane Austen’s, Emma Woodhouse. Being too choosy to find a proper suitor for herself, Emma ignores her own romantic desires and endeavors to find a match for her friend. And really, isn’t this as romantically magnanimous as we all hope to be? I’m not quite as naturally generous of spirit. Left with this column when my dating object went out of town, I decided it was time to give the tricky art of the match a trial.

A friend of mine—let’s call her Frenchie—had gone on a slew of ill-matched internet dates: too weird, too boring, too old. Having a bit of the 19th century in me, I felt these suitors were lacking a proper introduction to recommend them to my friend. Who were they but just some goons with internet access? Frenchie deserved the foreknowledge that her date was a gentleman: not weird, not boring, not old and moreover, handsome, clever and preferably rich. And then it hit me like my older brother in his tyrannical pubescent days: Ben! Ben was the perfect man for Frenchie!

The two were immediately smitten over e-mail. They had loads of common interests, and each found the other to be quick, funny and sweet. As a matchmaking neophyte, I confess I was probably meddling a bit too much. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of just how involved I needed to be in this process: Could the three of us get together this weekend? Should we all have dinner at my house or just meet for a drink? Ben kindly and gently assured me that he and Frenchie were hitting it off just fine on their own and no longer needed my assistance.

They made a Sunday night date and Frenchie and I orchestrated the perfect ensemble. And then, having gathered at this point that my role was merely a supporting one (note aforementioned ego blow), I rode my bike home. I had given Frenchie free reign to talk about me whenever there was a lull in the conversation during the date. Needless to say, I never came up.

When I got the debriefing phone call late that night, I couldn’t have been happier. A wonderful time had been had by all. I hadn’t even gone out on the date and yet I was experiencing all the post-date euphoria that comes from a match well made. Frenchie assured me that Ben had conformed to his male gender typing to a tee, paying and fetching beers, even bristling when she tried to open a door for him. Frenchie was pleased, and I was certain I had found my new calling.

That is, until I heard from Ben the next day. He agreed they had a “great time,” but said Frenchie was just not “his type.” And here, readers, was where being a matchmaker was cathartic. Had a date told me I wasn’t his type, I’d somehow channel an alter ego and play it cool like I never cared in the first place. As a matchmaker, however, I had no pride left to lose: what did he mean she wasn’t his type? I set him up with a full package. What more did the man want? But later, afforded the insight one gets from being on the periphery of a situation, I saw things a little more clearly. It wasn’t something wrong with her, and it wasn’t something wrong with him. It was the match itself. While they hit it off and had a blast for an evening, they lacked the ultimate variable not even the greatest of matchmakers can predict: the spark, heat and electricity necessary for romance.

My first foray into matchmaking didn’t end with a skip down the aisle, but it also didn’t end Shipmates-style with a martini in Ben’s face. The two told me they decided to be friends, but frankly, I couldn’t take any more. I was exhausted. I felt I had been on dating’s rollercoaster of nerves, excitement and disappointment without ever even putting on eyeliner.

Later that week, though, I bumped into a friend who told me she was going out that night with a young gentleman in possession of enviable connections to whom I had introduced her at the modern-day equivalent of the ball—the bar. I couldn’t help but get giddy all over again at the prospect of two of my friends kissing. My penchant for romance has made me a serial dater in the past and will now account for the dating thrill that can be achieved in the comfort of one’s pajamas: matchmaking.