But I was mistaken.(“Yoga is a great path.”) Well, clearly she and I weren’t made for one another.
I’m standing in “Boogie Nights,” which is not the set of a charming and disconcertingly erotic Paul Thomas Anderson movie, but a nightclub in Schaumburg that features a disco ball with elephantitis.As it rotates, the ball periodically reflects a blinding beam of light right into my eyes.The light makes it hard to read the waiver I’m filling out.The waiver says that if I should happen to be brutally murdered by one of the women I meet tonight, the dating service cannot be held responsible for my poor romantic choices. Now that speed dating has established itself as something more than a trend, I wanted to explore its cultural significance.If I wanted to get to know a woman further in a cowbell-free environment, I put an X next to her number on my scorecard.In the unlikely event that she marked me also, then the dating service would call a couple days later and give me her phone number.
It was kind of like a job fair, except instead of hoping to get paid, I was hoping to get–y’know.
Before speed dating, I didn’t believe I could learn enough about someone in three minutes to know whether I wanted to date them.
I wanted to understand the urge to pass judgment on people without knowing much about them.
And also I wanted to get lucky, so I went on 24 dates in two hours, “dating” each mini-girlfriend for three minutes.
I was assigned a number (25), and moved from table to table, serially dating everyone in my path.
After spending my allotted three minutes with each woman, I heard (cowbell), and moved on.