Zibby Mag

By Natasha Sizlo

It was October 2019, and I sat in a cozy bar in the heart of Paris waiting, alone, perched on a petite red velvet settee, wearing what I hoped was an outfit that whispered sexy-but-approachable: a seductive white angora sweater that just begged to be petted, plus a slinky satin skirt and sky-high heels. I’d come all the way from Los Angeles for this first date and every detail mattered. There was so much riding on it and yet so much I didn’t know.

What would he be like in person?

Would sparks fly?

Would we have anything to talk about?

Big deal, you might say, all first dates are like this. Trust me, this date was different. I was forty-five, and in the City of Love despite not speaking a word of French, on a whirlwind five-day trip I could barely afford. I’d come for one reason only: to find true love. My soulmate. Why did I go to Paris and not someplace (much) closer to home? In short, my astrologer made me do it.

I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. Give all of it to me: the rom-coms, the wedding announcements, the heart-shaped jewelry, Lionel Richie. All the happily-ever-afters. What’s, ahem, not to love? Even in the first grade, when this cute boy I had a huge crush on was passing out pink Valentine’s Day themed pencils (that his mother clearly bought for him), I made a silent wish that he would hand me the one reading, “YOU CAN’T ERASE MY LOVE!” (He didn’t. I got the one that said, “YOU’RE SHARP!”)

Like most romantics (and real estate agents—my day job), I love lists. When it comes to finding that perfect home, lists can be essential. Five bedrooms, an infinity pool with city views, paparazzi-proof pickleball court. Check, check, and check. I used to think the same logic applied to finding love. Pre-Paris, I thought I knew who my perfect match was, even if I didn’t know exactly where or when he’d appear in my life. My best guess back then was maybe hiking Runyon Canyon or shopping at Erewhon. Maybe, I thought, if I concentrate hard enough he’ll materialize. Isn’t that what manifesting is all about? I’d certainly heard of stranger ideas in this town. Thus, my “Perfect Man” list began.

Mr. Perfect, in my mind, wasn’t just tall, dark, and handsome; he had a sparkling personality, a huge heart, and was smart as a whip. He was spontaneous and romantic, educated and family-oriented. He had a great sense of humor (and fashion), loved collecting passport stamps, and knew his way around the kitchen almost as well as his way around the bedroom. He had an actual job that he loved (no influencers or reality show stars, please!) but still made it home every night for dinner. I wasn’t particular about his hair (no man buns unless it’s Jared Leto or Jason Mamoa), but he had straight, white teeth, and a smile that could melt my heart. He’d read actual newspapers and play Jumbo Jenga with me at Soho Malibu every weekend in the Summer (because of course he was a member). He wouldn’t be an exercise fanatic or a weird dieter. But this is LA, so I’d settle for him sitting at the same table while I ate my gluten-rich pizza with all the toppings. Of course he’d love the film Sabrina and all my favorite romantic comedies. And rosé.

However, I’ve since moved on from the list-making. All those boxes to check and platonic ideals for Mr. Perfect never led me any closer to my true love. Ultimately, there was only one requirement that I heeded steadfastly—the one that led me to Paris during that fateful October in 2019: It was his birthday.

Here’s where the astrology comes in. My best friend gave me a birthday reading with one of LA’s most sought-after astrologers (even though I never cared much for the profession). My friend wasn’t trying to convert me—she just genuinely thought I was in need of some hard-core celestial intervention. She was right. Every aspect of my life was in flames. I was a single mom living paycheck to paycheck; my beloved father was terminally ill; I’d ended things with the man I believed I’d marry one day, but I still couldn’t get over him. No matter what. It was embarrassing. I told myself an astrology reading couldn’t possibly make things worse.

The astrologer turned out to be warm, wise, and eerily prescient. By the end of our session, I was a believer. She told me that a certain birthday and birthplace—November 2, 1968, in Paris, France—lined up with something called my “Point of Destiny.” My heart dropped. Guess whose birthday and birthplace that is? Yes. My oh-so-problematic ex. Now I had a reason why I couldn’t get over him. It was written in the freaking stars. But, and you have to trust me on this, I knew he absolutely wasn’t the One.

I didn’t ask the astrologer for more context or what she thought I should do. I politely thanked her for the information and then speed-dialed my best friend and had a full-blown meltdown. I felt awful. Hopeless. Until the next morning, that is, when it hit me like a bolt of lightning: My ex wasn’t the only man born on that day in Paris. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? What if I tried to find the others? The ones who were still single. What if one of them was my true match? My soulmate was still out there, and I was going to find him.

Dear reader, I do realize how ridiculous this sounds. But keep in mind that, at the time of this astrology reading, I’d spent almost three decades dating, marrying, divorcing, and then dating again. There really wasn’t anything I hadn’t tried when it came to finding the One. So, I decided to take a leap of faith. I had nothing to lose, except maybe my dignity once people heard what I was doing.

It was so difficult to find eligible November 2nd- and Paris-born men that eventually I had to dismiss every other dating requirement I’d previously had. I created a Tinder Paris account, did targeted advertising on Instagram, announced my search on live radio, made “soulmate search” posters that kind strangers hung all over the streets of Paris, and so much more. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to find him. I opened myself up to men whom I would have never considered.

My friend wasn’t trying to convert me—she just genuinely thought I was in need of some hard-core celestial intervention. She was right. Every aspect of my life was in flames.

One November match was a firefighter or, pompier, in French. Old me: though incredibly sexy, this is a dangerous occupation, and the seriousness of his job will likely take priority over, say, texting me sweet nothings all day long. New me: Actually, I don’t know anything about the life of a French firefighter. And I could use an appropriate person to list as my “in case of emergency” contact. To my surprise, the men opened up in response. The arguable insanity of my quest made for an excellent icebreaker. More often than not, we found ourselves laughing. Meaningless smalltalk evaporated and in its place I experienced deep conversations that let me know I was far from alone in my quest to find true love and partnership in midlife. Even when there weren’t any sparks, there was always light.

That night in the candle-lit bar, with the fluff-forward fashion, offered up mystery, magic, and true possibility. Before my date arrived, I tried to imagine him explaining to friends why he was meeting an American woman who didn’t live here or speak French, and I began to question if he’d even show up. Eventually, a quiet, brown-eyed, hopeful man named Mateo, with exactly the right birthday, walked through the dim doorway. He even brought his birth certificate. As we stumbled through a conversation, first haltingly and then not, it became clear we were destined to meet. Although by the end of the evening we both sensed that perhaps we were meant to be friends rather than lovers, the date was one of the most romantic I’d ever had. It was as powerful a message as I could have hoped for that I was in the right place at the right time. I’d been beyond anxious about meeting these men in person, worried I was on a fool’s errand at best, with one hideously awkward encounter after another awaiting me. Thanks to Mateo, I stopped worrying.

Paris reopened pathways to love and acceptance in my mind. The men and women I met on my journey, some with the birthday and some without, offered me hope, faith, friendship, not a few cigarettes, and one of the most swoon-worthy makeout sessions of my entire life. After that last one, I joked with my sister, who’d come to Paris with me, that the whole trip had officially been worth it. I’d also come away with the hard-won realization that ideals are not the same as standards when it comes to dating. That lesson was worth its weight in AirFrance tickets. An ideal is almost always superficial. What they look like; where they’re from; what kind of job they have; their accomplishments and hobbies. All the things that will supposedly make them “perfect.”

A cursory glance at any dating app indicates that most people think like this; it can be the easiest way to find someone who isn’t totally objectionable. But consider this: who would you meet if you threw one, or some, or all of those ideals out the window? If you ever get a chance to let just one North Star guide you to love, no matter how outrageous that “star” is, commit one hundred percent. Because what you might find, in addition to some unforgettable dates, are your meaningful standards. These are about who you truly are, and how you want to experience love as well as give it. Once you really know that, when you meet the guy with the right everything but wrong birthday, you’ll be ready. I know I was.

Even though I still haven’t met the One, I’ve come to understand that I don’t absolutely have to have a tall, jet-setting man with a passion for pizza. One day, when the time is right, I will be able to say yes to the man who believes in destiny (and it doesn’t need to be the astrological kind), cherishes me and my children, and “CAN’T ERASE HIS LOVE FOR ME”—just like the pencil said.

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Natasha Sizlo is a writer based in Los Angeles. She grew up in California and has a B.A. from the University of California, Santa Barbara. Natasha started her career writing for magazines including Variety, Cosmopolitan, Shape Magazine, Santa Barbara Magazine, and Ray Gun among others. In 1998, she moved to Detour Magazine where she worked as Senior Editor managing an editorial team and working as a staff writer covering celebrity, fashion, and tech. After Detour, she continued writing for fashion brands and blogs, composing press releases and online copy, and eventually transitioning to real estate where she currently works at The Agency (Yes, the real estate firm from The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Million Dollar Listing Los Angeles, where Natasha has appeared on many episodes). Her astrologer told her that her Point of Destiny is to tell a story, so now she’s doing that.

Her book, All Signs Point to Paris, is available here.