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The Dating Project | ‘My Dance Card’

Sarah Rose

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.

I need you to know I was out there this week, trying.

Monday: I went to a trivia fundraiser in Brooklyn. Everyone there is better than I am. Except at trivia. But I need to be open to new worlds. I raised $1,000 for charity and won VIP tickets to The Daily Show. I met no one.

Tuesday: I speed dated. I was the most popular girl at a game of musical chairs. This is not an accomplishment. I can talk to anyone for three minutes. There was one guy I could get naked for in three minutes. He was Israeli, only here for a week, didn’t really understand how speed-dating worked. He was 30. Dimples. Green eyes.

Wednesday: I was supposed to log on to the speed dating site to see who wanted me, but couldn’t make myself. Instead I pouted about the wormhole of repetitive conversations: “Gold is a universal currency, everyone should have a few gold coins at home.” “I wanted to be an astronaut, but now I just program robots.”

Thursday: All online dating sites, all night long. Lots of guys in India were asking me out. I’m in New York.

Friday: My editor, concerned that I wasn’t leaving the house, invited me to crash the financial journalists’ ball. I went because there would be people there. I need new people. My editor turned his phone off and I never found him. I got stood up by my boss.

This is what romantic hope looks like: Maybe next week will suck less?

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