January 2006, San Francisco, California

By Marcia Simmons

The balding red-headed man said that before we could start talking he had to make sure I wasn’t a drug addict or a homophobe. I told him I was neither. Relieved, he shared that he was a recovering addict who likes to sleep with men sometimes.

While these were unusual revelations for a first date, they were not as unusual as the fact that he was wearing a hiking backpack and three jackets in a well-heated bar. I began to wonder if he was actually registered for this speed dating event or if he was a homeless man who wandered in. I also began to curse the friend who had convinced me that speed dating would be fun and interesting, especially in a cool city like San Francisco.

Now, the way that speed dating works is the women each sit at a station, and the men go from station to station creeping them out and asking them boring questions. Each interaction lasts five minutes. After the five minutes are over, the organizer rings a bell and participants circle “yes” or “no” on a “score card” to indicate whether they want to speak to each other ever again.

For what turned out to be the longest five minutes of my life, Too Many Jackets Backpack Man filled me in on the yoga true-crime novel he was working on because he “freakin’ loves” yoga. The novel, however, was distracting him from business school. And business school was making it challenging to get to his acting career off the ground. All I could think to say was, “It’s nice to be well-rounded.”

Five minutes. Thank you sweet Jesus for that little bell. Oh, I’m sorry Weirdy Mc-Too Many Jackets, our time is up.

The next prospect was dressed appropriately for the indoors and was not carrying all his belongings on his back. Things were looking up. German Guy was new to the U.S. and didn’t know many people. He liked my country … and my breasts. He stared at them intently the whole time we talked, occasionally glancing up at my face for a second. In a five-minute conversation, there’s usually four and a half minutes of eye contact, leaving a good thirty seconds for the flick down cleavage check. He decided it would be better to reverse the ratio to maximize the ogling time.

After German Guy, it was a blur of various Scandinavians and programmers from Google, Yahoo and other Bay Area technology giants. You see, the men who attend this type of function can be easily portrayed via a Venn diagram in which one circle represents Foreigners and the other represents Tech Industry Geeks. The area where these two circles intersect represents foreign men who work in the tech industry. There is a third circle representing bipolar bisexual men who may or may not be homeless, but it’s so far away from the other two circles that it doesn’t count as a part of the diagram.

They all asked the same questions and thwarted my attempts to have a conversation about anything else. What do I do for a living? What do I do for fun? Where do I live? Where am I from?

My fantasy of charming and sophisticated city men, too immersed in passionate pursuit of art or charity work to find time for conventional dating, was clearly off base. While my mouth engaged in small talk, my brain assessed the situation and shifted from amusement to panic. My inner monologue went something like this:

You know, Marcia, what makes you think that you are above all this? You’re pushing 30, and your cat will be your life partner. These guys seem really nice, and it’s mean that you’re spending the whole time wondering how common it is for men your age to be bald already. You are old enough that bald men are in your age group. Men your age have gray hair. You are in denial about your age. Your last two boyfriends were both six years younger than you. You still forget that you’re old enough that checking for a wedding ring before flirting with a guy is a good idea. Stop making up nicknames for them! Maybe you are destined to make babies Baldy Balderton or Recedey O’Hairline, and you’ll never know because you are sarcastic and distant.

But I just couldn’t convince myself to put my heart into speed dating. Every awkward conversation felt one step closer to giving up. Maybe there was a shortcut to romance, but I’m not the kind to take it.

That night, I met 19 men – or, should I say, dated 19 men. I could have walked away from that cavalcade of objectionable men with nine dates. Nine men picked me. Ten did not. Maybe they don’t date women who wear glasses, have a small gap between their front teeth and wear low-cut sweaters to things like speed dating events.

Looking on the bright side, I am happy I didn’t spill on my new black pants. I am happy the bar had a $3 drink special. But mostly I am happy that there is a way for sweaty weirdos to find love. I’m just not one of them. Bless their ugly little hearts.

Marcia Simmons is an editor and writer for a Bay Area weekly newspaper. She co-founded the Word Pirates writing group and writes the Smart Kitty blog.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Wednesday, January 31st, 2007 | Email This Post

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