That One Time, When I Crashed a Speed Dating Event

I’ve never had trouble getting a date – until I moved to New York. Blame it on an intensely competitive dating pool, a city bursting at the seams with people who are overbooked and overworked, or my own theory that most people find flirtatious texts, Chinese food and meaningless sex more satisfying and cost-efficient than an actual date. I thought I was content being single and unfettered without so much as a textworthy crush until I started to develop a thing for the men of Jersey Shore. (I spend more time watching them than interacting with males of my own species). Then I could smell it: desperation.

Something had to give. Rather than wallow in despair, I decided to take action. If I couldn’t get a date the ‘normal’ way, I could Google my way to romance: a speed dating event for ‘young professionals’ was a mere 24 hours away.
Oh God no – I wasn’t going to participate. I was going to investigate. I was going to observe a pedestrian, uninspired mating ritual and then pass harsh judgment. I certainly wasn’t going to voluntarily engage in self-effacement and public masochism. I would, however, be willing to watch others do so.

If one blind date is painful, then what are 18 blind dates? Cruel and unusual punishment? The stilted conversation, the feigned interest, the alcohol-induced potential that never materializes – I’ll take Jersey Shore, ‘The Situation’ and his abs, thanks.

Truth be told, I’m turned off by a pragmatic approach to dating. I’m looking for a soul mate, not shopping for a dishwasher. Chemistry isn’t created via a formula of compatible features, nor do I want to choose a man based on whether he meets a laundry list of criteria. I don’t want to find everything I’m looking for. I want everything I never expected. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t want is just a date. I want a love story. Suffice it to say, I don’t want it to begin with the words, ‘We met online.’

But I digress. I went to the Madame X Lounge for what I figured would be an innovative form of entertainment. The place was sexy in a strip club sort of way – plush red velvet couches and intimate love seats that lent themselves to the close-up cleavage lean or the accidental knee brush. Ah, contrived romance.

I headed up to the private speed dating room and tried to look inconspicuous. The participants were in ‘intermission.’ A few initial observations: the women were disproportionately younger and more attractive than the men. Everyone was wearing nametags. (Nametags, like fanny packs and socks with sandals, are inherently uncool.) There was a familiar vibe, and I traced it back to my eighth grade dance in the school cafeteria. Everyone was trying too hard, and no one wanted to admit they’re as interested in the opposite sex as they actually are. If I had to guess, the men worked as CPAs or had a hand in mortgage foreclosures. There were a few offbeat fellows, say, an aspiring magician or video game programmer. I was not impressed.
I ended up chatting with a serial speed dater. His former speed dating experience had spawned a long-term serious relationship that ended due to religious differences. He liked speed dating because at bars men never know if women want to be approached. Speed dating makes it easier on men, he reasoned, because at least you know everyone wants more than just one thing – in theory.

He starts every ‘date’ with a safe but stale line: “So, what do you do for fun?” Immediate turn off. I needed another drink and I had to remind myself I wasn’t actually participating. The serial speed dater revealed that out of 18 potential mates, he generally walks away with about three matches. Better odds than a night at the bar.

The second round of speed dating was about to start. At this point, the organizer kindly kicked me out of the ‘exclusive’ event. I was tempted to steal the raw veggie platter out of spite. Oh well. Those suckers shelled out $39, but my investigation was not only free but priceless.

Speed dating was winning me over – kind of. At least 12 companies offer speed dating in New York, some of which host events nearly every other night. If so many people are doing it, then why should it carry the stigma of a desperate minority? Two ladies gave me a perky, ‘It’s fun’ and a lukewarm, ‘You should try it’ on my way out before returning to their numbered spots. Fate is never bothered by a little free will, right?

Perhaps it’s worth a try, but I’m still not willing. Despite the abysmal state of the New York dating scene, I’d rather leave my next date up to chance than suffer through two hours of pre-date pre-screening. For the record, my bias against speed dating has nothing to do with desperation or fear and everything to do with my distaste for practicality – precisely what I don’t want mingled in with my romance.

I know what sparks feel like. I’m familiar with the divine place between the potential of a tryst and its actualization. The very things that make romance romantic – spontaneity, intense chemistry, and a sense of possibility – are dead in the water with speed dating, online dating, or any other contrived dating situation. I want to feel like I’m the only woman in the world – not one of eighteen options.

When people try to proscribe ‘perfect’ match, they fail to recognize that the random element is integral to creating chemistry. Love is complicated and messy, and I like it that way. So until there’s a field for ‘authentic connection’ on an online profile, I think I’ll wait for cupid. You have to start somewhere, so what’s wrong with starting with fate? I’m comforted by the knowledge that the one is out there. Somewhere. Maybe he’ll be holding an umbrella as I’m crossing the street or getting out of a taxi just as I’m getting in. Maybe we’ll accidentally bump iphones. I’m a sucker for a good scene, and I want to find someone in the midst of living life, not removed from it. I’m quite certain that he’ll be where I least expect to find him.

Or I could take matters into my own hands, start sporting the Snooki hairdo, crash an MTV party and wait for ‘The Situation’ to notice me. I think 2010 will be the year that fate makes a comeback.