We’re Going on a Man Hunt Episode 3: Speed Dating
After the shit show of last week, I decided to do something bold. Something I’d only ever seen in terrible 90s movies: speed dating. I signed up for a 23 – 30-year-old evening that was taking place in a crummy Wellington bar, and waited for my chance at love.
When the big day finally came around, it was pouring down with rain, I was slightly tipsy since I’d pre-drank on an empty stomach (when will I learn?) and overall, just felt really fucking nervous. However, walking in, I was pleasantly surprised at the selection. Truth be told, I really thought that people who did speed dating must be awkward losers like me, but these people, well, seemed normal. Some even cute! This might not be so terrible after all, praise be! Overall, there were 13 guys, with dates lasting five minutes each.
As for the dates, God, it went by in a fucking blur. I had come prepared with flirty, fun questions like “what reality TV show would you go on” or “who would win in a fight between Adam Sandler and Jim Carrey” (Jim, obviously. He is a man not to be trifled with), but at the last minute I chickened out, out of fear of seeming TOO quirky. Zooey Deschanel, how do you do it babe?
When push comes to shove, you mostly end up talking about shit like “How long have you lived in Wellington?” Yeah, I’m not super proud of myself either. Occasionally the conversation would lurch into something interesting, like the Irish potato famine, or Elon Musk conspiracy theories, but then the five-minute timer always rang, and boom, you’re back to small talk with another stranger. Shout out to the ex-Massey boys who bitched about the shit food on campus with me, I’ll always think of you fondly.
At the end of each date, you wrote down their name and a simple yes/no as to whether you’d want to meet up with them again. I jotted down six yes’s, seven no’s and left my fate in the hands of the over-enthusiastic organiser (he had an exclamation mark beside his name, enough said).
By the last date, I was exhausted. I really, really, needed to go to the bathroom (I have a small bladder, okay) and my introverted-ness had been pushed to the limit. On top of all that, I actually couldn’t remember anyone’s names or what they looked like. 13 faces and conversations just seemed to blur into a shapeless mass. Why do I have such a god-awful memory? I wonder if you can have sex with a shapeless mass?
The next day, I got the dreaded email: my matches. Out of the six I’d said yes to, I’d matched with five of them. Umm...okay!! Is ya girl secretly kind of great at dating?? Or maybe everyone else was shit at dating, but either way I’ll take it. There were only 14 matches for the total event which seems weirdly low. Had I been too heavy-handed in saying yes? Only one way to find out.
After exchanging Facebook info over email, I now have some dates lined up next week. Both cool and terrifying, but also, I cannot (and I can’t stress this enough) remember anything about these men. Wish me luck!