The Politics of #Speed #Dating, a woman's perspective

“April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain…”

The famous beginning lines of Eliot’s “The Waste Land”, but I would like to para-phrase that a tad bit, replace “April” with “February”, specifically for those of you spontaneously taking out your calendars to red-flag cruel months in your life’s almanac – FEBRUARY 14^TH…YES, FLAG IT.

Pursuing love in your pre-mid-life is no easy feat. It’s no flippant feat either for this post revolves around my virgin blind-dating experience, perfectly timed around Valentine’s Day (some celebrate Lamentines Day, wonder why).

I was Lucky Number 8. Was this my fortuitous evening, I thought, as I walked smugly into a dingy Comedy Club/Greek Restaurant with a “two entrée” minimum order requirement over and above the flat entrance fee, for what I could deem as my first and last rather expensive, Speed-Dating experience. 
So just the other day I was bathroom reading ‘Evolution Psychology’ – a graphic expression (doodles?) which btw, I highly recommend, and I started wondering how would speed-dating fit into this evolution? Is it because society is too impetuous now or is time running out for man? 

So I had 6 minutes, 6 whole minutes to get to the bottom of this: Are we a couple yet, love at first bite??? It's Valentine's Day for God’s sake! And so there I was, covered in “I don’t want to send any signals of sexual repression” clothing, fleece tights and a giant ring in the middle finger that screamed “she might hit you with that, if you hit on her with that” and my flamboyant open-mindedness coupled that unbridled sense of humor.

Hors D’oeuvres and the Cheese Plate

Don’t ask me why, but the guy I was paired with as my appetizer, was Maz, probably a short for Mabrouk Mujjauddin Mushidabaadi, a bald man from Bangladesh. Was it a mere coincidence that they had sent me Bangladeshi for my first bite, me coming from West Bengal? Poor guy started blabbering even before the timer had started, so I rightfully said “STOP. You can’t talk. Disqualified.”
Intimidation. He had no hair to pull out, I figured. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and settled back. Tick-tock. Ding. 6 minutes and counting.

I could hear some throat clearing and then I heard crickets. Suddenly he changed strategy, compliments started gate crashing..
”I see you have many good qualities”
“Like what”
“Your eyes for example, are very beautiful”
“My eyes are not qualities, they are genetics”
“I mean your English.. has no accent at all?”
“What kind of accent…American?”
“No, no I mean Bangla…you are from Kolkata..”
“Oh, I can put on various accents especially when I am in PMS mode ..wanna hear it..including American?”
Ding.

Next was Danny the Dwarf, no descendant of Thorin Oakenshield. He was figuratively a younger version of (for lack of a better parallel) Pres. Trump, with a trichologist approved permanent comb-over, in fact now that I think about it, he had that same kinda rodent toothed mouth. Every time he said something, I felt a nubile carrot (which I wasn’t dangling), die rapidly. He took copious notes (wth was he writing down, I want to copyright protect that). At one time I mentioned the Vagina Monologues and suddenly he got taller. Or was it his imaginary manhood giving him an extra 3 inches, I can’t tell. After that, the bell rang several times but he refused to move. Sigh. I have that effect. 

The Main Course(s)

Glen, a white dude with plenty of hair and a head bigger than Rihanna’s wouldn’t stop talking about himself. He went on and on about random irrelevant stuff. I tried to break his speed induced roll by telling him that his first name matched an alcoholic beverage's first name. His response. “I don’t BELIEVE you”. Glen-Levitt, Glen-Moray, Glen-Fiddich?? One flew over the Cuckoos nest..alas...he was lost in his own content.

Captain Mike was an erect navy guy, talking 40 looking 80. (I take back 'erect' at that age.) He was the only Giraffe in the room (I would like to clarify, there were no Elephants in the room, especially given my reference to Evolutionary Psychology previously). He spoke elaborately about the cleanliness in Germany. Later on, it turned out, (the chics compared notes), he had given the girls in the room a variable date of his upcoming retirement from the Navy…anywhere from 3 days to 3 weeks to 6 months to 5 years…hmm. Consistency Watson. I prefer locals.

Jimmy staggered on to my chair with his glass of red and sat down with a thud that measured up a 3.5 on the Richter scale. His pupils were so dilated that he could potentially see me as a fat woman singing. He saw my car keys and immediately pulled out his (keys).

“There! I am better than you”
“Er, sure, your bunch proves you are a hot mess..too many complications, nothing unlocks those trap doors eh?”
“So have you watched Captain $$&#” he cut me off, trying to make fun of my Indian name. His words felt like uninvited white entrants in an Indian spelling bee contest.
“No. Some cartoon, child?”
“No a TV series …60’s or something, not that I am that old..”
“Not at all. You seem immature enough. So what do you do?”
“I am a patent attorney. The chic before you thought I was a PET ATTORNEY”
“Ooh nice to meet you Dr Doo-legal!! “
After that, what followed was slurr, slurr and breakfast, I don’t know why he talked about breakfast so much at dinner time. I guess pot makes people hungry or perhaps it's a pet/pot attorney thing, they don't pay the attorney's fees, you have them for breakfast! Capisce?

Soon after, the cute event coordinator walked up to me and asked “How many have you talked to yet, maybe time for an intermission?”
I sputtered out loud but boldly confident… "5, feels like 10”. The girls in the room started cackling. They knew exactly what I was saying.
During the break I tried to influence the cute event guy asking him politely if he could rig the timer to 4 minutes instead of the unending 6, to save humanity. He refused. I pointed at my ring. I even flirted, he wouldn’t budge.
So I got ready to brace the next set of wannabe matches. I was reluctantly hungry for my fill, the finale. 

Desserts

I read Jose’s name as Jesse. Not because I am blind as a bat but because the room was dimly lit to keep people from nitpicking at the other person's physical flaws (or reading abilities). He yanked my chain on how I could miss “Jose”…it's California, we are everywhere!' Then we talked about Benny Hinn, the Jerry Springer of evangelism and Benny Hanna (I guess pot makes people hungry Number 2), followed by Adele which prompted me to tell him that our convo was over before time and he could move to the next table. No one likes Adele on my time. Sorry. Boundaries.

Raul was sorta decent looking with thinning gelled hair (not sure what came before, the gel induced thinning or the thinning induced gel but I can’t solve all of life’s mysteries alone) and a grey suit to hide his lack of biceps or triceps or any sorta ceps. I offered him a welcome arm wrestling match and he declined promptly. Then as soon as he found out my profession his eyes lit up and he started asking me questions and I screamed “SECURITY”. The entire room became silent for a second, but then the event guy pacified the fellow occupiers stating “It’s that mad woman, ignore her”. He was right. I pointed my ring at him again. Meanwhile Raul forced his business card on me, asking me how much I charged. While we didn't delve into the specifics of my charge rate, which is higher after hours, I pocketed his card as my reference for post traumatic writing.

Finally, Chet, a highly educated creature the creator didn’t much spend time to work upon, never been married, no kids, in a checkered jacket, sat in front of me smiling like Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

“Semiconductors”. He said, smiling, revealing his sharp unfinished, colored teeth and checking in, promptly..

“You know what that means right?” Oh ya! I do. For example, the event guy right now is semi-conducting his business, because your time is up, my precious.

Concluding Coffee

So between potential serial killers and potential vagina chewers with sharp teeth, one thing was clear. These men were looking to fill their voids and had no clue as to how to broach the issue. Most of them were hard wired engineers and had done the math, time and numbers. Speed Dating provided the most probable outcome in finding love. 6 minutes. But does magic happen in any of those hard constructs?

As for me, I am a writer. I can romanticize and glorify and ridicule anything. But I have decided one thing for sure, my days of kissing toads is over. I am at my 'getting to middle age' best and I will not compromise. And perhaps die alone. 

"ESTRAGON: I can't go on like this. 

VLADIMIR: That's what you think.

ESTRAGON: If we parted? That might be better for us

VLADIMIR: We'll hang ourselves tomorrow. (Pause.) Unless Godot comes.

ESTRAGON: And if he comes?

VLADIMIR: We'll be saved.

Vladimir takes off his hat (Lucky's), peers inside it, feels about inside it, shakes it, knocks on the crown, puts it on again.

ESTRAGON: Well? Shall we go? 

VLADIMIR: Pull on your trousers. 

ESTRAGON: What?  

VLADIMIR: Pull on your trousers.

ESTRAGON: You want me to pull off my trousers?

VLADIMIR: Pull ON your trousers.          

ESTRAGON: (realising his trousers are down). True. 

He pulls up his trousers.

VLADIMIR: Well? Shall we go?

ESTRAGON: Yes, let's go.” They do not move.

Excerpts, last few lines from Beckett’s masterpiece “Waiting for Godot” and that infamous RING