I Tried Speed Dating, and It Was Weird

Speed dating wasn’t for me, but at least I can laugh about how convoluted an experience I had

Gretchen Corsillo didn’t have an idyllic time trying speed dating

A little ways into Year Two of being single, I decided to try speed dating.

I’m a true introvert, so everyone I told was shocked. Even my single friends reacted with a sense of awe that I’d actually had the guts to go through with it. Honestly, I signed up on a whim, and the fact that I had to pay for my ticket was probably the only reason why I didn’t back out.

The event was held in a hotel lobby, which, thanks in no small part to its soundtrack of loud, bass-heavy music, I found somewhat odd. The saving grace was that the hotel bar was just down the hall, and each person was required to purchase at least two drinks. Thank you, vodka, for making the night a little less awkward.

In case you aren’t familiar with speed dating, the basic idea is that you get three minutes to talk to each potential date. Each person is assigned a number, and you get a small scorecard that sort of looks like what I envision you would use while playing golf. At the end of each “date,” you circle yes or no as to whether you would like to see the person again. Then you go home, email your final choices to the people running the event, and receive contact information for any mutual matches a few days later.

This particular group had each woman sit at a table in the lobby, and the guys walked in a circle every time the buzzer (actually a cowbell because why not) rang, sitting down with the next one in line. So it’s basically musical chairs, (hopefully) minus the running, yelling, fighting, etc. The good thing about sitting was that it let me see which guys were capable of following simple instructions, like walking in the right direction. That helped me weed some out right off the bat.

Once we were seated, I exchanged a few nervous giggles with the women sitting around me, who fortunately seemed just as overwhelmed and regretful of their decisions as I did, and the cowbell rang. Guy #1 sat down across from me.

Him: Hey, what’s up? This is awkward.

Me: Hey, yes it is.

Him: I don’t know what to talk about. I’m a doctor.

Me: I manage a non-profit [because I’ll be damned if I was going to waste all three minutes explaining that yes, libraries are still a thing, and no, I don’t have 800 cats].

Him: I live in New Brunswick [Central Jersey, over an hour away].

Me: I live here. [Internally: Why the FUCK are you here, then?!]

*Cowbell rings*

Both of us: How was that three minutes?

Three minutes is really not all that long. In most cases, it’s not even an entire song. In three minutes, you literally have time to say your names, where you live, and what you do for a living. That’s it. As he got up, I realized we never exchanged names. Oops. Well, New Brunswick is too far anyway.

I circle “no” next to his number.

Guy #2 sits down, still writing on his scorecard. I can’t see his answer, but I can see he’s jotted down notes: the girl’s name, a brief description of her, etc. Fuck. Should I be doing that? Nah, I’ll remember. I’ll definitely remember.

This guy lives slightly more locally, but still forty-five minutes away. He works in finance. The cowbell rings. No. No particular reason why, aside from the fact that I still know nothing about him. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Guy #3 is kind of goofy-looking but seems alright. He lives locally. When I tell him I work for a non-profit, he asks what kind. Apparently he also went to library school, although he does competitive intelligence for a bank (aka my eventual dream job). I circle “yes” because I want to know more about that.

Guy #4 sits down and asks me what my favorite ice cream flavor was as a child.

What?

Him: Sorry, I’m trying to be memorable. And I just smoked a lot of weed.

*Crickets*

Those three minutes felt really long.

Guys 5-11 aren’t particularly memorable. Guy #12 dashes into his seat and says he was excited to talk to me. He’s really cute and actually super nice. Yes. I even add an asterisk—my only actual note of the night—for emphasis. His name is Dan.

And, suddenly, it’s over. I’m mentally exhausted. As I walk out to the car, I strike up a conversation with two of the other girls. Turns out, one grew up in the town where I work. The three of us decide to write “yes” for each other so we can be friends and hang out. At least some good should come out of the night. (Spoiler alert: It never happened.)

I race home to input my answers, annoyed when I submit the Google form that it estimates a forty-weight-hour wait for my responses. I mean, I know the other people need time to input their data, but this portion of the event doesn’t seem very “speedy” to me.

As promised, I receive an email in a little over two days with my results. My first reaction is to scan through for Dan’s name. He’s not on there. But I thought we really connected in those three minutes! He said he was excited to talk to me. I’m a little more disappointed than I probably should be. He is still a complete stranger at this point.

I immediately recognize the first name as Guy #3. I’ll take it. I wanted to hear more about his job, and he seemed nice. The second name doesn’t ring a bell at all. His email address is his name, so I do a quick search for him on Facebook. Nothing. Weird. I do remember the last one, but I was pretty ambivalent about him. If I don’t hear from him, I won’t be disappointed.

Within a few hours, I receive emails from Guy #3 (let’s call him Glen) and the mystery guy (Paul). Glen says he can’t wait for our “next” date and wants me to call him to set it up. Paul is a little more relaxed and says he’d love to meet for dinner or drinks if I’m still interested. He uses more emojis than I’d normally find acceptable, but I like this approach better. Still, it can’t hurt to talk to him. I was curious, after all.

After a few texts, Paul and I set up a sushi date for that Friday night. Fortunately, the restaurant is small, so I shouldn’t have too much trouble finding him, as I still have no idea what he looks like. He mentions he’s a pharmacist, but I still have no recollection of talking to him. Glen isn’t as cut and dried. We exchange a few texts and establish a time for a quick phone call. I don’t get out of work that night until nine, but I figure it shouldn’t take too long. So the next night I throw some laundry in as soon as I get home and give Glen a call.

We’re still on the phone when I transfer my clothes from the washer to the dryer. And it’s not one of those “we could talk about anything” situations. It’s more of a “Glen won’t shut the fuck up” situation.

The conversation starts when I make the mistake of asking Glen about his job. He spends the next twenty minutes telling me how he couldn’t get a library job after grad school. Eventually he complained about it enough in his daily life that the people from his local bank took pity on him and told him about this job. Now he telecommutes and enjoys the fact that he doesn’t have to wear pants during the day. (Not that I wouldn’t love a job that didn’t require me to wear pants. But Glen is creepy about it.) Somehow the conversation devolves into him reading me selections of his poetry. It’s just as awful as it sounds.

Nevertheless—probably because I’m so tired at this point that I can’t be bothered to say no—we agree to go to dinner the following week. On the bright side, I remember what he looks like. So, there’s that. Plus, I’ve been wanting to try the restaurant he suggests.

But first comes the date with Paul. We agree to meet at the restaurant. I get there first and opt to wait for him in my car. A few minutes later, a Nissan Maxima rolls up as promised. He steps out, wearing a checkered shirt and khakis, and still does not look familiar. I silently start to wonder if the event organizers responsible for handling the matches made a mistake. He immediately recognizes me, though.

The dinner isn’t super memorable either. We talk a little about work and our families. He owns a duplex that he rents out one side of and loves to tell me about it. I’m renting a basement apartment and can’t relate. Still, we vaguely decide to see each other again. We go on one more date—this time for the Jersey tradition of getting dessert at a twenty-four-hour diner—and things fizzle out afterward. I’m not disappointed.

The following week, I arrive about three minutes late to my dinner date with Glen, as parallel parking is not yet my strong suit. I try not to feel like Meadow walking into Holsten’s in the final scene of The Sopranos as he glares at me from his seat in our booth.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he says as I sit down.

I apologize. “Parking is really bad tonight.”

He shrugs. We’re off to a great start.

When the waitress comes to take our orders, he speaks first and orders for both of us. I had been loosely considering changing my mind from my original choice, but I guess I’m stuck with it now. With dismay, I realize the restaurant is BYOB. Looks like I’ll be on my own tonight.

From the moment the waitress walks away until we’ve ordered our dessert, Glen talks about himself. By that point, I know even more about his career path, his hobbies, of which there are very few, and his family. He has never been in a serious relationship.

As the waitress drops off our coffee, he finally takes a breath to ask what I like to do for fun. I name the first thing that comes to mind, seeing live music, and tell him I recently saw three of my favorite bands at the same show: AFI, 30 Seconds to Mars, and Linkin Park.

He gasps. “I don’t know who the first two are, but Linkin Park?”

Finally, I feel like we may have connected on something. “Yes! I’ve been listening to them since their first album came out, and I was so excited to finally see them!”

He raises his eyebrows. “I hope you don’t talk about this at work. What would the library patrons think if they knew you were going to metal shows?”

I’m not sure whether to argue that none of the three bands are metal or call him out on his judgment. My voice on edge, I manage, “I think they’d think I’m pretty cool.”

Thankfully, we sit mostly in silence until we’ve paid. When we part ways outside, I don’t even feel bad dodging his attempt at a kiss. On my way home, one thought crosses my mind over and over again: I will never try speed dating again.

Gretchen Corsillo is a librarian and writer from the greater NYC area. She holds a B.A. in Literature with a concentration in Creative Writing from Ramapo College and a Masters in Library & Information Science from the University of Pittsburgh. Gretchen is the author of a bimonthly column for Public Libraries Magazine, and her work has also appeared in Salon, Feminine Collective, and Sad Girl Diaries. She is currently working on a novel. Find more of her writing on Substack, or follow her on Instagram.