Should I say no if someone doesn't match an item on my list -- or should the list be revised?

A list isn't written once and for all: you refine it after every meeting so it stays true to your ideals while fitting the real person you're currently seeing. His formula is revise, rewrite, yield -- and always check the substance: behind every quality you wrote down you need to understand its core, so that what's on paper is really what you're looking for. His example: a girl wrote that her husband had to be a leader and an outgoing person; the man she met turned out quiet and reserved, but after a few dates she realized what mattered more was stability, intelligence, a serious approach to Yiddishkeit, and feeling at ease around him -- she rewrote her list and built a relationship with someone she would originally have screened out.

“After every date, the list is worth refining.”

A woman past forty had almost given up hope, but she didn't give up: she increased her tefillos and decided to become more open. She had a strict list: no accent, not divorced, certainly no children, and he must not want his wife to cover her hair. It occurred to her that maybe Hashem did have someone for her, and she was the one keeping herself from meeting him because of her "list." She set the requirements aside and is now happily married, without feeling she settled for less: she likes her husband's accent, she understands the reasons for his divorce, she likes how he is with his children, and she covers her hair gladly, having learned the beauty of that mitzvah. The author adds: you need to do your part, remembering that it's Hashem Who ultimately acts -- and to keep hoping and davening.

“Maybe Hashem does have someone for her, and she isn't letting herself meet him because of her “list.””

She warns against imagined yardsticks. A girl was strong in math and considered it a measure of intelligence, sure she couldn't connect with someone who struggled with math. Years into a happy marriage, her husband mentioned in passing that he had failed his school math exam three times -- she was stunned, and said herself that it was a good thing the subject never came up on their dates, or she might have missed all the signs of his real intelligence. Her advice to those who help others look: don't let people be measured by invented yardsticks.

“I wonder what would have happened if I'd asked back then!”

A caution: a good twenty-nine-year-old, after a broken engagement, decided to consider only girls whose parents live in Eretz Yisroel, who were working, and to no longer compromise on looks -- based on a photo. He'd never had any of these conditions before; now he has a broken engagement and a longer list, and since then she hasn't been able to send him on a single date. The opposite movement happens too: after two years of searching, people open up on their own -- someone who wanted only an Ashkenazi girl is now open to a Sephardic one, someone who wanted up to twenty-five is now open to twenty-nine.

“Now he has a broken engagement behind him, and his list has only gotten longer.”

She brings in the idea of choice overload: when there are too many options, a person either ends up dissatisfied with the choice made or doesn't choose at all. In shidduchim this means that narrowing your focus to what truly matters doesn't impoverish your choice -- in the long run it makes you happier.

“We either end up dissatisfied with our choice, or we don't choose at all.”

Sometimes people refine their lists as they meet candidates with different traits; this raises the risk of "menu shopping," but as long as the list stays within about ten items, polishing it along the way is fine. Their general rule, though, is to make the list and stick to it: you can drive yourself crazy rewriting it after every date. Depart from it only for a really good reason to doubt the list itself, and preferably after discussing it with someone close and trusted.

“You can drive yourself crazy, rewriting your list after every date.”

She brings a joking "list of requirements" from the same woman at twenty-two, thirty-two, forty-two, fifty-two, sixty-two, and seventy-two. At twenty-two it's ten items: handsome, charming, financially successful, a good listener, witty, in shape, well-dressed, appreciates beauty, full of pleasant surprises, romantic. With each decade the requirements drop to small everyday matters, and by seventy-two only one item is left -- "breathing." The point of the joke is serious: the list is never a constant, it will be revised regardless, and it's better to revise it consciously and in time.

“Revised list. Age seventy-two: 1. Breathing.”