One of my life's greatest simple pleasures is belting out show tunes at the top of my lungs on the drive home or when I'm in the shower, but that saccharine ditty from Fiddler on the Roof is one that I've always thought was particularly nauseating.
Surrogacy matching feels a bit like speed dating. Better yet, it's more like putting a puzzle together. You start with the edges and lay the basic framework with your personal expectations. Then, you work your way from the outside in. With some replies to my ad, I can pass the opportunity over with a polite "thanks, but no thanks," in much the same way that you would pick up one puzzle piece and quickly exchange it for another, knowing that from just a glance it's not the fit you're looking for. Other pieces seem to have the right shape, size, and color, so you hold it longer. You roll it around in your hands a bit, twisting it this way and that to see if there is a fit in the border you've already pieced together. If that one piece fits you keep going, and so on and so on until you find yourself matched, cycling, and headed for transfer. The jigsaw isn't complete until after delivery, when the full image of all the interlocked pieces match the picture promised on the box.
Three couples. One is close to discard, one I'm scrutinizingly twisting around, and one which seems like a perfect fit.
We shall see.