A little while ago I went on a date with a new guy. He was very nice and polite, active in Church, good-looking, and seemed to have a stable job.

“So why don’t you want to marry him?!” my Mom asks later, clearly frustrated by my lackluster report on the night. (Okay, so maybe she didn’t use these exact words but I know what she meant.)

I tried to calmly explain what was missing, which was that I didn’t feel any sort of connection with the guy. She sighed with disappointment and issued the following pronouncement: “You’re too picky.”

It was not the first time I have heard those words, and it will not be the last. In fact, the older I get, the more I hear it—as if each year that I remain single should be accompanied by a corresponding decline of expectations.