It wasn't so long ago that the Japanese ideal was to be married by age 25, typically to someone handpicked by parents. At its core, matrimony was an economic arrangement with all the romantic overtones of a mortgage contract.

With any luck, your appointed spouse would wash regularly, not be entirely imbecile . . . and might even have a hint of personality. Couples really blessed would perhaps have an interest or two in common. As for good looks and romance, that was more than most young people approaching matrimony would dare hope for.

Today, of course, the shackles of Japan's traditional marriage customs have been largely cast off as notions of romantic love have swept in on a tide of Western influence. Even the accepted cut-off age for women to marry has extended from 25 to beyond 30. The way it is now, anybody who wants the perfect mix of beauty, breeding and brains can search as long as they want.

And search -- and search -- is what many do, though as those who don't strike lucky find out, the older they become, the more difficult it gets to land a partner. Impossibly high standards on both sides are perhaps the chief obstacle to happy unions. Men yearn for a self-sacrificing woman with an 18-year-old's body and the emotional maturity to settle down and raise a family. Many women dream of a life partner who splits the housework and brings home all the bacon. Turns out Japan's modern singles have tied themselves into a Gordian knot.

Former office secretary Junko (who didn't want her surname printed) knows what it's like to feel the pinch. "I've taken my time looking around," said the 37-year-old, who quit her job partly to focus on finding a husband. "I became so busy with work, then realized I was missing my window of opportunity and that my options were becoming limited."

Junko tried omiai, the matchmaker-arranged dates that were once the most common way for Japanese to meet their spouses-to-be. But after dozens of those, she found herself stuck in a quagmire of traditional obligation. Griped Junko: "Sometimes you hang out three times with some guy you don't even like just so the matchmaker saves face."

On the other side of the gender fence is Hirotaka, a 52-year-old dentist who has been in the market for a bride since his divorce four years ago. Hirotaka (who also didn't want his surname printed) dated a few women here and there, but to little effect. Though he conceded his age might be a liability, he felt his dates lacked the right combination of empathy and tenderness. "I'm sure there are plenty of women who do possess those qualities," he said. "But they're just not around me."

Looking for a helping hand, Junko and Hirotaka decided to sign up with Tokyo-based M's Bridal Japan, one of more than 2,000 kekkon sodanjo (marriage-consultation agencies) that have popped up around the country in recent years to capitalize on changes in how Japanese now go about getting hitched. Whereas traditional omiai veer toward the convolutedly personal, M's is all corporate efficiency.

Corporate efficiency

On registering with M's Bridal, the marriage-minded must first cough up a 100,000 yen fee before filling out a form with particulars ranging from the standard stuff about job description, salary and level of education, to deeply personal matters such as any history of mental illness, physical deformities or sexual dysfunction. After they attach a (flattering) photo, their profile is then fed into a computer database of more than 50,000 names accessible by marriage agencies across the country. Computer algorithms sifting through this ocean of data then generate lists of potential matches which M's sends to members every week or so.

Despite having these high-tech aids, however, company officials say their clients tend to make selections along surprisingly simple lines. "The first thing women want to know about a man is his salary," M's Bridal spokeswoman Misako Tsuya said. "The second thing is height, as women, too, are taller nowadays." Male clients, unsurprisingly, are even more basic. "They want younger women," she said.

When two people's heights and salaries and ages all fall within acceptable parameters, they slip into their best outfits, take a deep breath and head off to face each other for the first time, usually in a cafe. If they hit it off and get married, they pay the agency a 200,000 yen "marriage completion fee" and they're done. If there is no chemistry, they simply go their separate ways and skip on to the next person in line.

An alternative to the tête-à-tête approach is to attend a singles party, as arranged by any number of marriage agencies. These get-togethers are designed to give wannabe spouses the satisfaction of finding a partner (pretty much) on their own.

However, to minimize the guesswork and cover the key initial bases, M's Bridal staff give every partygoer a number card to wear -- and a list of names and numbers that reveals to each one the income and profession of all the other guests. Best of all, when a fine specimen just refuses to cast a glance, it's possible to have them paged for a discreet one-on-one encounter at the reception desk. If only things were so simple in the real world.

Many organizations reduce the odds at such gatherings by limiting them to certain groups of people. For example, only male graduates of two-year colleges and higher, and women with at least a high-school diploma are eligible to attend "Yangu Eriito" (Young Elite) parties thrown by the 100,000-member Nihon Nakodo Renmei (Japan Matchmaker Association). Other shindigs include their "High-Class" parties for men earning at least 8 million yen a year and women under 40; their "Fresh" parties for anyone under 49; and their "Nice-Middle" parties for men over 39 and women of any age.

Should any jaded single be less than convinced that a party is the way to go, clients' testimonials on the association's Web site are on hand to do the trick. Take, for instance, a letter by "Mrs. U," 62, who wrote after attending a starkly designated "Party for People Who Want to Re-marry."

"My life went from dark to bright in the blink of an eye," gushed the woman. "It was more like a tea gathering than a party. I met lots of people, including my new husband."

While simply showing up at a party may be no guarantee of success, the odds are probably better than not going at all. About a fifth of the 329 people at the association's Christmas party last year ended up as couples, according to the site.

However, singles too timid or disinclined to jump on the party bandwagon can always turn to kekkon juku (marriage cram courses) for a dose of common-sense advice on how to get out there and flirt.

"If you're in your 30s and you find a man you know you want to marry, apply some strategy!" said Hisano Ueda, a lecturer at a Tokyo company called Que, which offers courses in various forms of self-improvement. As she spoke, the classroom of women dutifully scribbled in their notepads.

"OK, this is what you tell the guy: 'If you were to ask me out, I'd never turn you down.' " she continued. "Most men will ask you out. They think they've taken the initiative, when really it was you."

Another option is to head over to the marriage agency Bridal in Tokyo's Shinjuku district. There, a 30,000 yen fee gets you a place on a course called Ai Sukuru -- which the company says alternately translates as Love School, Meeting School, Eye-Contact School or, simply, I School.

Course exercises include exploring the inner self through drawing pictures. An artist's insistence on blacks and grays may be a sign, they say, that it's time to brighten their outlook, while using warm reds and yellows suggest they have enough optimism to power them through their search for a spouse. There is also a seminar on dressing to complement personal skin tones.

These, though, are just warm-ups for the main thrust of the course, which are monthly group sessions in which classmates bluntly appraise each other's style of social interaction, for example during self-introductions or in party settings. Talk about wake-up calls. "Folks with little experience in this kind of frank exchange sure are surprised at what they hear," said Kyoko Shinbara, a spokeswoman for the school.

But the peer reviews -- however bracing -- serve a vital purpose, say school administrators. "With cellular phones and e-mail so popular today, people are losing their ability to communicate any other way," remarked Shinbara. Dulled sensibilities, naturally, hinder any serious relationship. "A husband and wife should be adept at reading one another's faces and eyes."

A life of sacrifice

With the economy in dire straits, though, not everybody can afford the fees of marriage agencies and cram schools. However, for only the cost of an Internet connection, spouse searchers can find advice on scores of Web sites covering everything from how to process immigration papers for foreign partners to developing the kind of character needed to attract a mate.

One site, a Web "discussion room" called Danwashitsu Hana, offers this motherly advice to anxious readers: "Don't worry. Someone somewhere will bring you an opportunity for love . . . Live a life of sacrifice, and the goodwill you generate will be the courier."

For many singles, though, it's not the price of marriage agencies and schools that prevents them seeking help in finding a spouse. Rather, it is pride.

"A part of me thinks that joining means I don't have what it takes to find a man on my own -- that I'm some kind of loser," confessed Yukiko Matsumoto, a 30-year-old magazine editor in Tokyo.

Matsumoto said that she and her single girlfriends often mull over Sunday newspaper adverts for agency services. So far, though, they've decided to continue their quests unassisted.

"Maybe when we turn 35 we'll take the plunge," she said. "I mean, you do wonder, 'Will I become a little old lady -- all alone?' "