Slow Dating

I have experience. Life experience. Work experience. Dating experience. Yet, I hadn’t tried – nor was I prepared for – speed dating. In theory, it’s genius. But, in reality – like most other genius ideas – it didn’t quite live up to its tag line. I’ve done the bar thing, the online dating thing, the “no, but seriously, this time this guy is GREAT”-friends-with-good-intentions-amateur-matchmaking thing. Some have lasted longer than others. But, this speed dating novelty really seemed like it could work. 15 guys, 15 girls, five minute mini-dates. Genius.

Let’s be honest. We all know within five minutes whether or not we want to continue talking to someone. This is why the bar thing has been as popular as it has for so long. Let’s review: you walk up to a bar, order a drink, turn to Random Dude #1 on your right and make a visual assessment: cute; hell no; married (why do they let them outside?!); too short; tall enough; bad shoes; nice jeans; dad? Guys can fall into more than one of these categories. But after that 5-10 second assessment, you’re ready to a: flirt or b: walk away. And either option flies.


When you go on a blind date, you’re stuck for at least the length of time it takes to drink one cocktail and wait for your waitress to bring the bill. (Side note: why is it that when you’re on a terrible date, the waitress is never anywhere to be found? Ever. There should be a special pager that waitresses wear, where pager code 9-1-1 stands for “get me the hell out of here.”)


Okay, where were we? Right. Speed dating. Genius idea because you cut out the unnecessary full-length date with Mr. Not-gonna-happen. So, I was psyched.


I brought with me two friends whose proclaimed intention was not to participate, but to sit at the bar nearby and hold up cards w/ a rating system: 10 for “lock it down” to 1 for “get up and run.” I vetoed that particular plan but was happy to have them there as my moral support squad. When we showed up to the venue, it was a cross between a really ghetto airport bar (appropriately populated with middle-aged men pounding beers until the last possible moment before they had to depart for their flight) and a sad corporate cafeteria. The name of the place was French…but the décor and atmosphere were much more Franglish. This was bad sign #1.


Bad sign #2: The looks on the faces of the women ranged from complacent to trepidatious to desperate. The guys looked like the junior class of Northwestern’s chemistry department.


Bad sign #3: There were 14 women and ten men. Let me back up a bit. A few days before the speed dating event, the registration for women closed because it was full. Lucky (unlucky) for me, I made it in under the wire. Curiously, I looked at future speed dating events set up for the next month. ALL of the spots for women were full. So, are we desperate or are we desperate? That’s the real question.


I sat down and as the men filed in, I took a bigger swig from my pint of Matilda, and I made direct and determined eye contact with the waitress that telepathically translated, “I’m gonna need another one…like now.” She understood. The first broseph to sit at my table looked like he was really looking for the National Junior Honor Society Convention. I ventured a mental guess that he was around 17 (although I knew that the minimum age of this shindig was 21). He was 24. Not too far off. We made some extremely awkward and forced introductions, which included a mild disagreement about what road the McCormick Convention Center was actually located on. With all his gesticulating, I noticed a gold band on his left ring finger. “Say what?” was my first thought. “Are you married?” is what I actually asked the NJHS rep.


“No!” he exclaimed – either offended or flattered…I couldn’t tell which one. “This is a promise ring.” Yep, I nodded to myself. Of course it was.


“And who did you make the promise to? Your mother or your father?”


He looked me square in the eyes, slowly clasped his hands together on the table, leaned slightly forward and with conviction and reverence replied, “To God.”


Well alrighty then – it was gonna be hard to compete with that.


His next line of questioning centered around my preferred radio stations. I informed him that I don’t have any…because I don’t have a car…and I have iTunes and Spotfiy. All of those words were lost on him. We sat in silence for 20 seconds, both looked out the window and said in unison, “Look! It’s raining!”


The next three or four men struggled with the English language. To their credit, they had only moved to the United States three or four years ago. I helped one of them learn the difference between “their” and “they’re.” And let’s be honest, that grammatical anomaly trips up even the most seasoned English-speaking vet. The rest were a handful of Midwestern boys of average height, average looks and average personalities. And by my highly scientific mathematical calculations, that averaged out to nada.


I did, however, meet three other lovely ladies who also came up with the same answer to the aforementioned mathematical equation. We exchanged cards and tried keep our voices down as we exclaimed, “I mean, REALLY? [Insert half cry, half laugh.] REALLY?”


I returned to my moral support squad, deep into their third and fourth cocktails. They showed me the photos they took of me chatting with #4 and #6. They gave me the old, “you never know until you try” speech so we could justify my 30 dollar spend on ten bad dates instead of three awesome cocktails. They pointed out the trash can where I then, immediately, deposited my speed date selection sheet.


In conclusion, speed dating – like most other genius ideas – did not in fact live up to its tag line. So, will I ever do it again? My unwavering answer: only if two drinks are included.