Dating with a view to marriage is no other thing than work. I am a writer in New York, but Sex & the City this ain’t. Carrie had friends who weren’t repopulating the planet. She had fancy shoes. I have fuzzy Crocs. I get commuter rail and Brooklyn birthday parties. She got limos and glam soirees. I actually exist.
This is a project and it is a schlep. I used to believe in surgical strikes, now I’m carpet bombing. I’m on three different dating websites. I ask total strangers if they know anyone single because I have dated the pool of my friends’ friends’ friends dry. Somewhere, someone is going to make me laugh and swoon. I haven’t met him yet. I’m trying.
I hope it will end. Happily.
Every person who has not been single and alone this millennium has asked “Have you tried speed dating?” The only question I hear more often is “Have you tried Internet dating?”
I went to HurryDate. Other hyper-efficient choices included Easy Date, New York Minute Dating, And That’s Why You’re Single, ComiCon Speed Dating, 7 in Heaven and 8 Minute Dating–which is probably way too long for a terrible date.
Hurry Date was the right yenta mix of “Hurry up, you think your eggs will wait forever?” and “I get that this is miserable, but it will be over in a hurry.”
To that end, HurryDate is genius. Three minutes is not long enough to hurt anyone’s feelings, or even enough time for a truly awkward silence. It’a just long enough to know what no looks like.
After the first 15 minutes, the top of my score card read like this:
#41 – Josh – Attorney – N
#29 – David – Journalist – Y
#30 – Joshua – Professor – N
#33 – Adam – Attorney – N
#26 – Josh – Surgeon – N
Fifteen dates later, after two solid hours, the bottom of the score card looked pretty much the same, a few more Joshes and one more Y.
I can’t remember anything about anyone. I have no idea who any of these men are, how they looked, or what we said. Speed dating is amnesia dating. If only every meh, nah, and ugh in Sarahworld could be so forgettable.
You want to know what happened to #29 – David – Journalist – Y, don’t you?
We met for brunch.
#29–David: I hated the small town paper I started at.
Me: I have happy memories of my first gig; I had my own serial killer.
#29–DAVID: I’m writing a book about it.
Me: Your memoir of a dying profession?
#29–David: Fiction. It’s going to be huge.
Three hours later:
#29–David: I took so much crap from the editors at that paper 15 years ago.
Me: But you have a sports column now, a dream job. You can’t just get over it?
#29–David: Who is your agent?
This is the calamity of the three minute date: It is long enough for a no, but not nearly enough time for a yes. We had followed up our hurried date with a leisurely meal, and then I was three hours older. HurryDate is just a molasses date deferred.
My back-of-the-envelope dating math: There are 38,000 men in my target audience in NYC. I’m a nerd, hot for the 2 percent who are two standard deviations above average smartypants. I’ve dated at least 100 of them. Ten percent are gay. That leaves about a potential 600 suitors.
At 3 minutes per date, it will only take 30 hours to hurry-date every single Josh in New York. That’s an all-nighter. I could do that.
But fast forward to the molasses part: If I had a 5 percent hit rate on HurryDate, it means only 30 more actual dates. I’m 90 hours of weeknights and brunches away from dating all of New York City dry.
In other words, there’s no difference between HurryDate and what I’m already doing. I can’t hurry love.