What's the Rush? Part 2

I am in a crowded club at Eighth Avenue and 14th Street for my first try at speed-dating. I'm sitting in a chair, facing another single man, both of us holding paper and a pencil. We have numbers pinned to the front of our shirts.(I'm #19). In a minute, a whistle will blow, starting off a series of 3-minute mini-dates with 30 different men. Every 3 minutes it will blow again, the signal to stop one conversation and begin the next one. If you like the man you just spoke with, write down his number, keeping a list to turn in at the end of the night. If you picked someone who also picked you, you'll both be notified of the potential match.

Sounds easy enough.

The whistle blows and date # 1 begins. There are introductions and then the usual chatter that you can fit into 180 seconds. Names, occupations, short list of interests. The first conversation is fine, as is the second. By the third, I am beginning to wonder if it was the man I’m presently speaking with that belongs to a gay bowling team, or was that the guy before this one? Confusion begins to settle in and before I can sort out exactly who said what…

…gay men of all ages, sizes, shapes and colors are passing by me in a quick-moving blur, of 3 minute snippets. I am barely picking up portions of conversations and, after about the fifth or sixth "mini-date" they are all melding together into one long nervous sentence: "Hi, I'm a doctor/lawyer/chef/accountant/personal assistant/aspiring actor/cater waiter/musician/cab driver/pilot and I like movies/dinners/vacations/hanging with friends/family outings/walking/working out/dancing/clubbing/reading/television and most of all I'm really looking for a long-term relationship/casual friendship/hot times/monogamy/friends/lovers/an affordable apartment and oh, by the way, what gym do you belong to?"

I am talking to blond haired muscleboys, middle-aged professionals, recent college graduates and the entire male student body of the Stella Adler Acting school. And every 3 minutes, the whistle blows again and I move to another chair and begin what seems to be the same conversation over and over and over and over again. I can't recall what anyone said. I don't know which one is the corporate executive with a posh townhouse and a foot fetish and which one is the assistant district attorney who managed to tell me how much he hated his life before the whistle blew and I moved to the next chair. This could be the fifteenth date or the twenty-fifth. I have absolutely no idea.

The only thing I do realize, is that I haven't written down one number of someone I'd like to get to know better. I'm so disoriented that I've forgotten about the paper in my hand. And at this point, there's no way I'm going to recall even one number of someone I liked, because I can't remember one man from the next. I'm exhausted.

Then, the whistle blows, I move to another chair and I find myself face to face with him. Warm smile, cute dimpled chin, beautiful brown eyes and an appropriate age. He smiles and asks me how I'm enjoying speed-dating and I find myself telling him how confused I feel and how I haven't written down even one number, even though we're near the end of the night. He shows me his own empty pad and we both chuckle. We talk for another minute or two, but I'm barely processing what he's saying since I'm concentrating on making sure I get his number written down. There's no way I'm passing up those brown eyes.

The whistle blows again. We say our goodbyes, and it's not until the evening is over and I'm handing in the paper with Brown Eyes' number on it that something he said suddenly registers. When I asked what he did for a living he answered "Oh, I’m not working right now." I'm in a room filled with the eligible doctor/lawyer/chef/accountant/personal assistant/aspiring actor/cater waiter/musician/cab driver/pilot and I picked the unemployed guy. I have just handed in a paper which essentially says that I would like to date someone who won't be able to pay for anything, ever. And it seems a small consolation that I could be sitting across a restaurant table staring into those beautiful brown eyes while he's on his side telling the waiter to just slide the check on over to me EVERY time we eat out.

The next day an email arrives and I’m told I had no matches. I have been rejected by a man with no source of income. But, take heart, the email reads, there’s another speed-dating event coming up in just 2 weeks to give me the opportunity to try again. Just the thought of it makes me dizzy.