A New Low in Dating!

I do believe I’ve done it all now. Last week, my friend Sally and I went to “Eight-Minute Dating.” You may have heard it referred to as “speed dating,” or perhaps some other inane term, but basically it’s all the same thing – a crock. It’s a meat market disguised as a “safe and fun way to meet other singles in your area!” Yeah. As Sally would say, “uh, not so much.”

You spend eight minutes with eight different members of the opposite sex, and by date #8 you feel like a robot stuck on auto-best-behavior. “Hi, my name is blah blah blah! (*fake smile*) I grew up in bleh bleh bleh, I moved away to blah blah blah, got my degree in bleh bleh bleh, moved to blah blah blah, I’m 34, I have no children, I have one dog, one cat, I do not smoke, I drink on occasion (*slamming back the second martini of the evening*), bleh bleh bleh, I love music, art, literature, architecture, and I have a great sense of humor.”

That last one, as true as it might be, sounds like a lie by the time you get to the end and begin to resemble Ben Stein.

So here you are, eyes glazed over, mouth dry and running on autopilot, cheeks cramped from all the fake smiling, and at the end the only thing you’ve really gotten for your money is some crummy cheese cubes and veggies with dip. You still remain disenchanted with the opposite sex, you still had to buy your own drinks, and you still go home alone.

When all is said and done, you’re supposed to race home and log on to the 8-minute dating website and enter your matches. But what if you didn’t like anyone? Or worse yet – no one liked you?! Welcome to my reality, folks. I waited a day just for good measure, though I pretty much already knew the outcome. Big surprise that the fat, dumpy 30-something didn’t get any second dates.

Then again, the prospects were pretty bleak to start with. While the first guy was way cute, very charming, and funny in a 27-year-old cute and charming way, he was also an obvious hottie-chaser. Seven years my junior and WAY out of my league, I wasn’t even gonna try. I got the feeling while sitting there with him that he was about as comfortable with me as he would have been with his mom’s crafting club pals.

Then came a couple of nice guys on this side of thirty – appealing, except for the divorced with kids part. Next!

Number four was very nice, very handsome, very gainfully employed, but very reserved. I think I scared him. Either that or he was just mesmerized by my terrific beauty.

Number five - another guy with a kid. Next! (Sorry, my one major rule is that you can’t have any of those. Not unless they walk on all fours, are covered with fur, and eat kibble...you know, the kind that don’t talk, don’t throw tantrums, can be left alone for hours at a time, and will never stomp their foot at me and remind me that I’m not their real mother. Say what you will about my selfishness, but I can’t think of anything MORE selfish than propagating your own genes and then expecting someone else to be responsible for your spawn. But that’s another rant for another entry and another time).

Then came a couple more who were so unique and special I don’t even remember their names or what they looked like. I was too busy praying for the timer to hit 8 minutes. I’m sure they were, too.

And finally, I had my last date of the evening, and it happened to be with my coworker, whom I’d convinced to sign up for this stupid thing. We spent the entire 8 minutes talking about the office where we work. Besides the fact that we work for the same company, he’s just not my type. Nice guy, but we’d be about as good together as chocolate and onions.

So then, it's back to the drawing board, back to the wonderfully awful world of dating in Buffalo (which I swear has got to be the worst dating city on the planet) in your 30's (which is probably the worst dating age ever). For the second largest metro area in New York state, Buffalo sure isn't boasting an impressive eligible bachelor pool - unless single dads, mullets, missing teeth, and Lynyrd Skynyrd worship are your fancy. Good lord, I feel like I'm trapped sometimes inside an especially horrible episode of "Sex and the City."

So watch this space for entries to make Carrie Bradshaw proud.