Speed Dating
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
To really get the full speed-dating experience, you should listen to this piece.
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I'm standing in "Boogie Nights," which is not the set of a charming and disconcertingly erotic Paul Thomas Anderson movie, but a nightclub in Schaumburg that features a disco ball with elephantitis. As it rotates, the ball periodically reflects a blinding beam of light right into my eyes. The light makes it hard to read the waiver I'm filling out. The waiver says that if I should happen to be brutally murdered by one of the women I meet tonight, the dating service cannot be held responsible for my poor romantic choices.
Welcome to speed dating.
Now that speed dating has established itself as something more than a trend, I wanted to explore its cultural significance. I wanted to understand the urge to pass judgment on people without knowing much about them. And also I wanted to get lucky, so I went on 24 dates in two hours, "dating" each mini-girlfriend for three minutes.
I was assigned a number (25), and moved from table to table, serially dating everyone in my path. After spending my allotted three minutes with each woman, I heard (cowbell), and moved on. If I wanted to get to know a woman further in a cowbell-free environment, I put an X next to her number on my scorecard. In the unlikely event that she marked me also, then the dating service would call a couple days later and give me her phone number. It was kind of like a job fair, except instead of hoping to get paid, I was hoping to get--y'know.
Before speed dating, I didn't believe I could learn enough about someone in three minutes to know whether I wanted to date them. But I was mistaken.
("Yoga is a great path.") Well, clearly she and I weren't made for one another. I can't touch my toes, even when I bend my knees.
(Me: "Do you consider yourself an optimist?" Her: "You know, I think as I get older, I do.") Nope!
("I'm a big fan of smooth jazz.") I've never heard that sentence before, and I never care to hear it again.
I should add that most of the women didn't seem to like me either. After I commented to one woman that anyone could be interesting for three minutes, she replied, "You've got a minute left." Part of it was that the women were significantly older than me, but the age gap didn't seem to bother #13.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"I'm 25."
"I'm 46, but I dated someone who was 26." Fun as that sounds, Mrs. Robinson, I believe I'll have to pass.
There were plenty of duds, but I will confess to falling in love twice. The first was a doctor. The thing about doctors is that they are compassionate, smart, and rich, and I couldn't stop staring into her eyes and imagining the ease with which she could pay off my credit cards. Though I don't remember the color of said eyes, or anything else about the doctor except her profession.
My second love I remember more distinctly, a not-unattractive-but-quite-clearly-middle-aged woman who told me she'd been speed dating before:
"Did you hook up with anybody?" I asked.
"Four people," she replied.
"Dang!"
"Went out on a few dates," she explained.
"I think we have a different definition of hooking up."
"I'm 46, honey. Hook up is different. I just found out what a booty call is."
Now there's a woman I could grow to love. Together, we could discover sexually charged slang and, well, that's all we could do really, but that's more of a connection that I made elsewhere.
I marked x's for both the doctor and Ms. Booty Call, but neither of them liked me. Only two women x'ed me, but I hadn't marked either of them. I'm disappointed I'll never be able to tell my kids that I met mom at Boogie Nights, but, just like Gloria Gaynor sung midway through my speed dating adventure, I will survive.
I thought I would really, really hate speed dating. And I did. But I couldn't help being seduced by the bright spinning disco balls of Schaumburg, and by the openness and honesty of the people I met. Much as I'm loath to endorse any sort of event that involves cowbells, there's nothing wrong with people wanting to meet new people. And, sure, speed dating just furthers the notion that singleness is a disease. But when I get dumped, I just lie down on the linoleum floor of my kitchen and wait for the cat to get hungry and start eating me. If, indeed, we have to feel that aloneness is a disease, at least speed daters are out seeking treatment. I usually just wait to die.
I'm standing in "Boogie Nights," which is not the set of a charming and disconcertingly erotic Paul Thomas Anderson movie, but a nightclub in Schaumburg that features a disco ball with elephantitis. As it rotates, the ball periodically reflects a blinding beam of light right into my eyes. The light makes it hard to read the waiver I'm filling out. The waiver says that if I should happen to be brutally murdered by one of the women I meet tonight, the dating service cannot be held responsible for my poor romantic choices.
Welcome to speed dating.
Now that speed dating has established itself as something more than a trend, I wanted to explore its cultural significance. I wanted to understand the urge to pass judgment on people without knowing much about them. And also I wanted to get lucky, so I went on 24 dates in two hours, "dating" each mini-girlfriend for three minutes.
I was assigned a number (25), and moved from table to table, serially dating everyone in my path. After spending my allotted three minutes with each woman, I heard (cowbell), and moved on. If I wanted to get to know a woman further in a cowbell-free environment, I put an X next to her number on my scorecard. In the unlikely event that she marked me also, then the dating service would call a couple days later and give me her phone number. It was kind of like a job fair, except instead of hoping to get paid, I was hoping to get--y'know.
Before speed dating, I didn't believe I could learn enough about someone in three minutes to know whether I wanted to date them. But I was mistaken.
("Yoga is a great path.") Well, clearly she and I weren't made for one another. I can't touch my toes, even when I bend my knees.
(Me: "Do you consider yourself an optimist?" Her: "You know, I think as I get older, I do.") Nope!
("I'm a big fan of smooth jazz.") I've never heard that sentence before, and I never care to hear it again.
I should add that most of the women didn't seem to like me either. After I commented to one woman that anyone could be interesting for three minutes, she replied, "You've got a minute left." Part of it was that the women were significantly older than me, but the age gap didn't seem to bother #13.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"I'm 25."
"I'm 46, but I dated someone who was 26." Fun as that sounds, Mrs. Robinson, I believe I'll have to pass.
There were plenty of duds, but I will confess to falling in love twice. The first was a doctor. The thing about doctors is that they are compassionate, smart, and rich, and I couldn't stop staring into her eyes and imagining the ease with which she could pay off my credit cards. Though I don't remember the color of said eyes, or anything else about the doctor except her profession.
My second love I remember more distinctly, a not-unattractive-but-quite-clearly-middle-aged woman who told me she'd been speed dating before:
"Did you hook up with anybody?" I asked.
"Four people," she replied.
"Dang!"
"Went out on a few dates," she explained.
"I think we have a different definition of hooking up."
"I'm 46, honey. Hook up is different. I just found out what a booty call is."
Now there's a woman I could grow to love. Together, we could discover sexually charged slang and, well, that's all we could do really, but that's more of a connection that I made elsewhere.
I marked x's for both the doctor and Ms. Booty Call, but neither of them liked me. Only two women x'ed me, but I hadn't marked either of them. I'm disappointed I'll never be able to tell my kids that I met mom at Boogie Nights, but, just like Gloria Gaynor sung midway through my speed dating adventure, I will survive.
I thought I would really, really hate speed dating. And I did. But I couldn't help being seduced by the bright spinning disco balls of Schaumburg, and by the openness and honesty of the people I met. Much as I'm loath to endorse any sort of event that involves cowbells, there's nothing wrong with people wanting to meet new people. And, sure, speed dating just furthers the notion that singleness is a disease. But when I get dumped, I just lie down on the linoleum floor of my kitchen and wait for the cat to get hungry and start eating me. If, indeed, we have to feel that aloneness is a disease, at least speed daters are out seeking treatment. I usually just wait to die.
