My Speed Dating Story

Some years ago, I got an email asking me if I wanted to try speed dating. Intrigued, I replied yes and said I’d give it a try.

This event was for professionals in their 40s and 50s, and it took place at a bar. I arrived an hour early (because I took the train into town) and decided to have a drink while I waited for them to set things up in the back.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw several people arranging small tables and chairs into two rows. I counted eight tables, each one with a number on it. From the email, I knew that women would be seated at each table, and that men would move from table to table after five minutes of conversation with each potential date.

All of us would be asked to write down afterwards who we felt we’d like to go out with, and if someone we named also chose us, then the organizers would say congratulations you have a match and send both of us each other’s emails.

I was as fascinated by the efficiency of the method as I was by the possibility of meeting new people. I was also delighted to discover some months later that this technology actually dated (no pun intended) back to the 19th century.

With some time to kill, I decided to have a beer, watch the Red Sox game on the TV, and ask for a menu. No sense in dating on an empty stomach, I thought.

After my burger arrived, a lady with a garment bag and briefcase approached the bar. The reason I knew is because the guy next to me at the bar positively craned his head to get a look at her. His date was not amused.

By the way, how can you tell who’s a psychologist in in a room? They’re the ones looking at everyone else whenever someone attractive walks in.

Anyway, she was indeed stunning. She had dark brown hair in a tight bun and looked like she’d just come out of a courtroom. Without sitting down, she flagged down at the bartender, asked her a question I couldn’t hear, then thanked her and disappeared.

Oh well, I thought. Probably not my type anyway.

I watched the game for the next half hour or so while finishing my meal. Slowly, a number of men and women began to arrive who I could tell were here for the speed dating. They walked in hesitantly, looked around the bar as soon as they came in, and were quickly greeted by the organizers, who led them to a table in the back and asked them all to fill out name tags and put them on.

I realized it was probably time for me to join them, so I paid the bill and headed to the back. There I saw the other daters, almost all of them with drinks in their hand, looking nervous. Many of the women had wine, while a few of the men carried beers. I wondered if I should order another one, but decided against it.

Soon the organizer came out and introduced herself. She went over the rules, which were as follows: each of us were to be given a clipboard with a piece of paper, upon which were written the first names of all the people we’d meet. We were to circle the names of all the people we liked and wanted to see again, and hand that paper in at the end of the speed date. There was also a space for notes.

Then she asked the women to sit down at each table, told the men they’d be moving from table to table after five minutes of conversation, and wished us all luck.

Then she tapped a small bell which she seemed to produce from nowhere. The game was afoot.

Date One

I began by introducing myself, and Date One introduced herself back to me. She told me she’s an architect in her later 40s and works on designing solar arrays for buildings. I found that quite interesting, so I asked her about it. She looked surprised, as if no one had ever asked her that before (which I found hard to believe). Anyway, she seemed quite eager to discuss it, and began giving me a brief but riveting overview of what she does and its importance.

Before either of us knew it, time had elapsed, and it was time for me to go on to the next table. She apologized for talking so much. I smiled and said that was fine. I circled her name.

Date Two

I decided to go with the same script and introduce myself to Date Two. She introduced herself back to me, and mentioned she’s a dentist. I told her that’s funny as I just got a cleaning last week and was in love with my hygienist as a kid. She laughed and said she’s not used to being appreciated so much.

This date had a lot more back-and-forth than the first one. I asked her about dentistry and she asked me about teaching. She asked me if I have any kids, and I said yes, two little ones that live with me half time. She mentioned that she has two adult children, and that she and her ex-husband also shared custody 50-50.

I was just about to start answering the question “where are you from,” when the bell rang. It was time to move on.

Date Three

Then came Date Three. I knew right away she was different.

For one thing, she looked way too young to be at a dating event for people in their 40s and 50s. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, and could probably even pass for late twenties (I asked her on the date how old she was and she told me she had just turned 40).

The other thing is that she was easily the most physically attractive person in the room, and was dressed rather provocatively to boot. Unlike everyone else, who was dressed somewhat conservatively and casually, she wore tight blue jeans and a rather revealing low-cut sweater. Her hair fell gorgeously around her shoulders, and she had gorgeous eyes and an amazing smile to boot.

Everyone was trying not to stare at her, including the women. More than once, I caught the men trying to sneak a sideways glance while they were seated at an adjoining table. And just like the scene almost an hour before, more than once, I caught their dates noticing (hard not to when your tongue is almost sticking out).

And that’s when it hit me. This was the lady at the bar from before.

As soon as I sat down I asked her if she was the one with the garment bag and briefcase. She said yes; she brought a change of clothes because she’d just come back from a meeting, and was asking the bartender if there was a place she could change.

But reader, that was not the most interesting thing about her, or at least not the most interesting thing to me. What hit me almost as much as her appearance was that she had a copy of Sartre’s Being and Nothingness on the table.

My nerves went through the roof, as much for her looks as for what I now knew was likely to be her intellect. Is she a writer? An artist? A professor? My mind raced with the possibilities.

“Nice book.”
“Oh, do you like Sartre?”
“No, I was just about to say I liked the movie more.”
“Ha! What do you mean?”
“I mean look around. The For-Itself is everywhere, here, tonight.”

She laughed again, and we quickly proceeded to get into a deep back and forth with regard to how much Sartre borrowed from Heidegger, who’s the better philosopher, and just when I was about to say something about the Letter on Humanism the bell rang.

That’s when we noticed everyone was staring at us.

Yes, everyone.

The people at the bar, too.

Dates Four through Eight

I don’t remember much about them. One of them worked in medical records, the other was a college dean, and one just frowned at me the whole time.

The moment we were done, I filled out my paper and handed it to the organizer, then turned around to look for Number Three. She was chatting with one of the other guys. I was intensely jealous for a moment, but then realized how silly that was. I also realized I needed to use the rest room briefly, so I left and came back as quickly as I could.

When I returned, she was gone. Dammit, I thought. I wanted to ask her our right then and there.

Postscript

The next twenty-four hours were nerve-wracking. I knew — indeed felt with every bone of my body — that we had made a connection.

In the morning, I noticed myself bouncing between the uncertainty of not knowing if I was her cup of tea physically and the certainty that we were meant to be together. By late afternoon, I was convinced someone like her was probably way out of my league and that I should stop obsessing. Still, I imagined us holding hands, kissing in the backs of bookstores and libraries, and um, doing other things.

When the email finally came the next morning, I was crushed to discover that we didn’t match. It took me almost a week to deal with the disappointment, and probably much longer if I weren’t in therapy and didn’t have fellow therapists to share my sorrows with.

From time to time during the past few years, I’ve imagined running into her on the street and what I would say. It would be the story of our encounter and how it affected me in the form of a love letter.

Once I even wrote it out just to see how that felt. During a particularly vulnerable time, I even once thought about emailing it to her, before thinking better of it.

This morning, I decided to unearth the story and do something else with it instead.

Dear readers, this story is dedicated to Amy and to what could have been.