I wasted my twenties and early thirties looking for a husband. Every day. All day. I prowled the bars, the gyms, the office parks, the subways, and the supermarkets—
always on maximum flirtation alert in case Mr. Right wandered onto my personal dating movie set. I had to be ready to flag him down, to snare him, to get his hand in marriage. Mine was an existence of profound misery, a dead zone—a mating hell that almost cost me my sanity.  

And none of it was my idea.

When I graduated from college, the endless pressures, questions and comments about my coupling status began. Usually originating with other women, older women, ordinary women.

“Do you have a serious boyfriend yet?”  

“When are you going to get married?”

“Do you know how hard it is to meet a man after 35?”

They convinced me that my inability to snag a husband meant I was somehow defective, somehow unlovable. I morphed into a pathetic creature that cried for weeks on end and bored friends to death overanalyzing situations where a guy I’d dated for as little as two weeks never called again. My desperation hit rock bottom the night I talked to an obscene phone caller for thirty minutes believing him to be Mark, the handsome law student I’d dated three weeks earlier finally calling me back. He immediately sensed the sadness in my voice and realized he could get more bang for his obscene buck by pretending to be the object of my desire. Even though the caller’s voice sounded completely different, I so needed him to be Mark that I rationalized away our bizarre conversation.

By 35, I’d had it.

The obscene phone call was not only my lowest dating point, but also my breaking point. The mental energy required to find a mate drained out of my body. I had to fill my evenings with something more life sustaining than dates with guys I had no real connection with.

A small ad in the local paper piqued my long dormant interest in music. The director of a community theater production for Guys & Dolls put out a call for singers, dancers and set crew. Not a singer or a dancer, I landed the important role of curtain puller. Night after night, scene after scene, I donned my nubbed gardening gloves and opened and closed the heavy red velvet curtain, mesmerized by Guys and Dolls my age dancing and singing before me. I looked forward to being in the company of men without the burden of a husband search weighing me down.

At the end of the musical’s run, one of the “Guys,” Matthew, asked me out. Although I’d sworn off dating, I could not resist his go-for-it approach to life, something lacking in his predecessors. We went bike riding and had a picnic. Over deviled eggs, tuna sandwiches and coleslaw he looked me in the eyes and said, “I need to tell you something,”

“Sure, anything,” I said.

“I have manic depression,” he continued. “And no job.”  

During my fruitless search for a shiny and perfect Mr. Right to make me whole in society’s eyes, I probably wouldn’t have gone out with him again. But now I was looking for something else and I knew his love of life and sense of adventure might help me find it.

Matthew took me hiking in the White Mountains and encouraged me to climb my first 4,000-footer, the first man I dated who suggested we do something other than lie on the beach, eat at a pub or go back to my place. He introduced me to a different and vibrant way of living. On our most memorable date, he dragged me to a karaoke night, jumped on stage and belted out show tune after show tune—imitating Robert Goulet so perfectly the crowd gave him a standing ovation.

I fell in love.

Not with Matthew, but with karaoke, something I’d never even heard of until that evening. I confessed to him on the drive home that I’d always wanted to be a sultry lounge singer, but had been told I had no talent. At his house, he pulled out his guitar and encouraged me to sing, “Ode To Billy Joe.” When I finished, he leaned over and whispered, “You’ve got a sweet voice. You should sing.”

That’s all I needed to hear. The next day I located a singing teacher and began practicing two hours a day. Within six weeks, I debuted at a karaoke club crooning Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” and Sade’s “Smooth Operator.” Matthew supported me every step along the singing way and clapped the loudest when I won my first small singing contest.

At the height of my singing prowess, Matthew ended our relationship. He’d fallen in like with a young singer, a mezzo-soprano he met at an audition who also had manic depression. I didn’t cry this time. I didn’t need to. Finding Mr. Right no longer mattered. I wished Matthew and his new gal the very best and moved on.
Three months later, Sophia, a friend and perpetual matchmaker, called and said, “I met the perfect guy for you at a party. Jimmy loves travel, architecture, music, and he’s really cute.”

“I’m happy to meet him,” I said, viewing it as an adventure rather than a high-stakes dating encounter of the marrying kind. Jimmy shared the same curious and playful attitude toward life as Matthew and we hit it off right away. I’m almost certain that if I’d met Jimmy before karaoke freed me from the constraints of husband-hunting bondage, my shell of a persona would have driven him away.

Funny how once I stopped looking for Mr. Right and starting looking for myself, I found not only him, but also the singing voice I always wanted, but never knew I had.

Julie Nardone is a freelance writer and singer from Ashland, Massachusetts. She sings regularly at local karaoke nights and encourages other wannabe singers to do the same.