Speed Dating
So here I am. Three weeks from 35. Smart. Desirable. Sexy.
And, somehow, single.
It's a common story, right? You're fun and successful and you have a great sense of humor. If not perfectly well adjusted, at least aware of and working on the baggage. You know, without anyone having to tell you, that you're great in the sack. And you are blessed with a bunch of amazing people in your life who love you and think you're pretty great -- none of whom can imagine why you haven't been snatched up already. Blah, blah, blah . . .
But, as we all know, it gets harder to meet people as we get older.
I, personally, have a bunch of pools that I would rather not fish in. Friends. (I already have a lot of exes there, don't need any more.) Bars. (Well, just the one where I play foosball, and all the guys who've ever hit on me there were either far too young, far too drunk, far too married, far too stoned, or just plain uber-creepy.) And then there's work. (Yeah. Everyone knows what a bad idea that is.)
I don't know about you, but for me, the online thing just isn't doing it.
So now what?
(insert impending doom orchestral bit here)
Enter: Speed Dating
You all know what speed dating is, right? You've seen the various romantic comedy awkward and hilarious moments.
For those of you that haven't heard of speed dating, here are the (heterosexual) basics:
I'll fast forward here through the sexy boots, fabulous red jacket, bad hair day, pouring rain, and terrible traffic, and head straight for the nitty gritty.
The Scene
When I arrived, there was a small gaggle of men hunkered down around the far left of the bar. I seated myself just to the right of mid-bar (the importance of which will become clear later). As more people arrived, people continued to order drinks, to steel themselves for what was to come. Always, for some reason, women went to my right, and men to my left. Eventually, when a guy occupied the second to last open seat to my left, leaving one seat between us, I looked around and said, "What is this, boys versus girls? Whatever you do, don't cross the line!" warranting a hearty laugh from all the men.
Finally the rain delay ended and it was time to begin.
Date Number One: Tom
Tall. Blond. A little goofy, but he has a nice smile. His first question to me: What's your super power?
I was caught a little off guard, so my answer was something lame. But as we continued our conversation we found that we had several things in common, including the big important Travel and Food categories.
The little bell rings, and I think to myself, I could sit through dinner with this guy, while circling Yes.
Dates Number Two through Ten
Apparently the boys versus girls joke made a big impression, because I was greeted with several cootie jokes. Besides that, it was, admittedly, a little bit like the speed dating scenes you see in the movies. There's the guy who's obviously several inches shorter than I am, even seated, and really not very interesting. The old, rotund, doesn't know how to do male pattern baldness guy who loves to tango -- literally -- and comes off as sad and desperate. North Beach guy, whose only topic of conversation is what bars he's been to in the area. The cocky drunk / possibly stoned guy, who opens by talking shit about the poor dude running the event. And all the non-descript guys who don't even warrant anything more than me halfheartedly pretending to write notes so I don't hurt their feelings if they catch me quickly circling No as they walk away.
Date Number One, Redux: Tom Again
Toward the end of the event, I have a couple of blank spaces on my paper, so I stay seated, expecting one of those guys to wander over. Instead Tom comes ambling back.
"I saw you sitting over here alone and thought I would keep you company. Do you mind if I join you?" he asks.
I think to myself, How chivalrous!, then say so.
To which he responds, "How funny you should say that! I decided in 2009 that I was going to be more chivalrous . . ." and he goes on to tell me that he went so far as to print out and hang pictures of knights, so as to inspire him in his quest to be chivalrous.
Uh-oh.
We figure out that the unmet guys on my page have either left or are no-shows, so Tom stays.
He starts to say something, and I stop him -- I hadn't had the time earlier to turn the superhero question around on him, and I wanted to know what his answer would be.
"Oh yes! My superpower! Well . . . I control the sun."
Uh-oh, again. He sounds serious.
And with no hint of humor in his voice, Tom presses on, saying that, indeed, if he wants it to be sunny, the weather cannot help but bend to his will. Yes, he does parties, but only if he really cares about the person. Oh, and his father controls the rain. So if Pops wants it to rain, it rains. And if Tom wants it to be sunny, it'll be sunny. But get them in the same place, like when Tom's dad visited him in San Francisco the week prior, their powers cancel each other out, and you end up with . . . mist.
Needless to say, the Yes on my page of notes changed quickly to a No as soon as I was able to hightail it out of there.
All things considered, it was not a complete waste of an evening. While I did not come away from that night with any future dates, I at least got a great laugh out of it. Oh, and the sexy boots and fabulous red jacket earned me an ego boost from the twenty-something kid running the register where I picked up food on the way home. As he handed me my food, he asked how old I was, then said I looked really good, "young . . . and slim" (because that's what he thinks every woman wants to hear, maybe?). Then, as I walked away, "Mmm . . . sexy!"
And, somehow, single. For now.
And, somehow, single.
It's a common story, right? You're fun and successful and you have a great sense of humor. If not perfectly well adjusted, at least aware of and working on the baggage. You know, without anyone having to tell you, that you're great in the sack. And you are blessed with a bunch of amazing people in your life who love you and think you're pretty great -- none of whom can imagine why you haven't been snatched up already. Blah, blah, blah . . .
But, as we all know, it gets harder to meet people as we get older.
I, personally, have a bunch of pools that I would rather not fish in. Friends. (I already have a lot of exes there, don't need any more.) Bars. (Well, just the one where I play foosball, and all the guys who've ever hit on me there were either far too young, far too drunk, far too married, far too stoned, or just plain uber-creepy.) And then there's work. (Yeah. Everyone knows what a bad idea that is.)
I don't know about you, but for me, the online thing just isn't doing it.
So now what?
(insert impending doom orchestral bit here)
Enter: Speed Dating
You all know what speed dating is, right? You've seen the various romantic comedy awkward and hilarious moments.
For those of you that haven't heard of speed dating, here are the (heterosexual) basics:
- A bunch of men and women go to a venue, usually a bar.
- Everyone is assigned a number.
- Everyone is given a piece of paper with a list of first names and a section for notes.
- To start, everyone goes to the table with their number on it -- that's your first date.
- After five minutes, a bell rings, and the men move, while the women stay seated.
- After each mini date, you have thirty seconds or so to write down notes about the person and circle Yes or No.
- Then at the end of the night you go home and enter your Yeses and Nos into a form on the event website.
- When two people say yes to each other, the system emails them both to inform them of the match.
I'll fast forward here through the sexy boots, fabulous red jacket, bad hair day, pouring rain, and terrible traffic, and head straight for the nitty gritty.
The Scene
When I arrived, there was a small gaggle of men hunkered down around the far left of the bar. I seated myself just to the right of mid-bar (the importance of which will become clear later). As more people arrived, people continued to order drinks, to steel themselves for what was to come. Always, for some reason, women went to my right, and men to my left. Eventually, when a guy occupied the second to last open seat to my left, leaving one seat between us, I looked around and said, "What is this, boys versus girls? Whatever you do, don't cross the line!" warranting a hearty laugh from all the men.
Finally the rain delay ended and it was time to begin.
Date Number One: Tom
Tall. Blond. A little goofy, but he has a nice smile. His first question to me: What's your super power?
I was caught a little off guard, so my answer was something lame. But as we continued our conversation we found that we had several things in common, including the big important Travel and Food categories.
The little bell rings, and I think to myself, I could sit through dinner with this guy, while circling Yes.
Dates Number Two through Ten
Apparently the boys versus girls joke made a big impression, because I was greeted with several cootie jokes. Besides that, it was, admittedly, a little bit like the speed dating scenes you see in the movies. There's the guy who's obviously several inches shorter than I am, even seated, and really not very interesting. The old, rotund, doesn't know how to do male pattern baldness guy who loves to tango -- literally -- and comes off as sad and desperate. North Beach guy, whose only topic of conversation is what bars he's been to in the area. The cocky drunk / possibly stoned guy, who opens by talking shit about the poor dude running the event. And all the non-descript guys who don't even warrant anything more than me halfheartedly pretending to write notes so I don't hurt their feelings if they catch me quickly circling No as they walk away.
Date Number One, Redux: Tom Again
Toward the end of the event, I have a couple of blank spaces on my paper, so I stay seated, expecting one of those guys to wander over. Instead Tom comes ambling back.
"I saw you sitting over here alone and thought I would keep you company. Do you mind if I join you?" he asks.
I think to myself, How chivalrous!, then say so.
To which he responds, "How funny you should say that! I decided in 2009 that I was going to be more chivalrous . . ." and he goes on to tell me that he went so far as to print out and hang pictures of knights, so as to inspire him in his quest to be chivalrous.
Uh-oh.
We figure out that the unmet guys on my page have either left or are no-shows, so Tom stays.
He starts to say something, and I stop him -- I hadn't had the time earlier to turn the superhero question around on him, and I wanted to know what his answer would be.
"Oh yes! My superpower! Well . . . I control the sun."
Uh-oh, again. He sounds serious.
And with no hint of humor in his voice, Tom presses on, saying that, indeed, if he wants it to be sunny, the weather cannot help but bend to his will. Yes, he does parties, but only if he really cares about the person. Oh, and his father controls the rain. So if Pops wants it to rain, it rains. And if Tom wants it to be sunny, it'll be sunny. But get them in the same place, like when Tom's dad visited him in San Francisco the week prior, their powers cancel each other out, and you end up with . . . mist.
Needless to say, the Yes on my page of notes changed quickly to a No as soon as I was able to hightail it out of there.
All things considered, it was not a complete waste of an evening. While I did not come away from that night with any future dates, I at least got a great laugh out of it. Oh, and the sexy boots and fabulous red jacket earned me an ego boost from the twenty-something kid running the register where I picked up food on the way home. As he handed me my food, he asked how old I was, then said I looked really good, "young . . . and slim" (because that's what he thinks every woman wants to hear, maybe?). Then, as I walked away, "Mmm . . . sexy!"
And, somehow, single. For now.