Just call me a Hurry Date reject

It appeared that my fate was already sealed that evening, even before I sat down to meet prospective boyfriend #1, when I had a brief encounter with irony. Before the Hurry Date you have a chance to mingle with the other daters and have a few drinks. The quiet before the storm where you can test the waters and pursue the initial instincts of chemistry. A boy catches my eye. Not because I am overwhelmed by that feeling of attraction but because he looked incredibly familiar and I can't quite place why. I continue to stare, trying to figure out who he is. He now notices me staring, and takes my open disregard for being polite as an invitation to walk over.

As he comes closer, I think to myself that I know that I have seen his face before. He opens the conversation to introduce himself, and his accent sounds a bit bizarre. Not quite British but also not quite American.

“That is an interesting accent. It doesn’t sound like you grew up in New Jersey, where is it from?”

“Oh, my father is British. I grew up on both sides of the Atlantic.”

Of course, British. I mean, do I have a homing device for these fuckers to find me?

“My father is a pretty well known guy over there, similar to John Cleese.”

And of course this half Brit is riding on daddy’s accomplishments.

“Well, what do you do now?” I ask, trying to gather more clues see if I could figure out how I know him.

“Oh well, I am a teacher. I love working with children, they really are the light to our future” Or whatever cliché shit he said.

That is fucking original in this crowd, I think to myself. It seems like the first three guys who I spoke to during the pre-date mingling were teachers. And I would later learn those three guys who made up my impromptu sample were indicative of the overall population of the Hurry Date males.

Mid cynical thought, and then it hits me. Teacher. Half-Brit. The face. HOLY FUCKER…

This is the freak who I have seen posting on every single personal ad out there. He is on Match.com, Yahoo! personals, and posts incessantly on Craigslist—sometimes even daily for weeks on end. His picture was one of those great over the shoulder shots, where the heavens are aligned, the Gods are smiling, and he will never look like that ever again, accept on film for that spilt second in time. Which explained why I did not recognize him. He looked nothing like the confident guy who he presented in his ad. Awe, I guess he really wants a girlfriend!

And I learn why, who I originally thought seemed like an amazing catch, posted all the time. He had no social skills. Interrupting me, with nothing interesting to talk about, and he dropped the conversation like six times over the course of a very painful ten minute conversation. My empty drink provided the perfect polite out to get rid of him.

I mean as if I couldn’t fall any further into the depths of depravity between the forays with Craigslist personals, match.com, and dancing on bars to woo a male’s attention, I tried Hurry Date and come face to face with another loser from CL. At least this time I didn’t have to sit through a drink and then bore him to tears with stories of terrible exes to give him the hint that I am not interested.

A spin off of Speed Dating, it’s like the high school cafeteria meets your Jewish mother’s dream of fifteen eligible heterosexual male bachelors-- except most of them weren’t Jewish and only one out of the fifteen worked as an I-banker. You have a 5 minute “date” with each of these fine bachelors and twenty-four hours later you log into the system and see which ones liked you back. Three weeks later, I am still waiting to hear if anyone who I clicked yes to liked me back.

I guess I made quite the impression, especially after three very strong Grey Goose and tonics. To add insult to my already fragile ego, not only does the computer notify you of your matches, but it also tells you the ones who liked you that you did not like in return. So, although I got the ego boost because I saw the sad saps who liked me but that I wanted nothing to do with, it also goes both ways. I am that loser appearing in a few guys’ inboxes under “People who liked you!” and giving those guys ego boosts right back.

If only the computer knew my track record in NYC, I never knowingly show my cards and tell someone I like them. I am old ‘skool, elementary school to be exact. If I like you, I throw my house keys at you and tell you to wait for me at my apartment as I continue to party with my friends. I suffer from second grade syndrome, if I like a guy I call him names and treat him mean until he buys me a drink. Sadly, it works like a charm in this city. Well except for the guy who I told to wait at my apartment so I could continue to party with my friends. But that is another post for a different day.

As with most events in my life, there seems to be a common theme, especially when alcohol is involved. When I got my list of guys who clicked that they liked me, I met them all before Grey Goose #2 was finished. I guess this is because by Grey Goose #3 I was sitting back in my seat, slurring my words, and answering the ever so popular question, “So what do you like to do for fun?” with such honest responses as, “I blog.” “I do stand-up comedy on dating and relationships.” “I go out to bars and drink. I love a nice scotch!” To which these guys acted like they never saw the inside of a bar before that night at Hurry Date.

Funnily enough, there is a very strong truth in its advertising. When you like someone, the five minutes is never enough and when you have nothing in common, those five minutes are like going to the dentist’s office, excruciatingly painful. The Harvard Economist and I had a lovely chat about my application to Oxford (an no he did not like me back) and the time was up before he told me about his work. Later in the evening I met a phys ed teacher who looked like he saw the hard side of life but boasted how his job combined his two loves children and physical fitness.

When he mentioned his love for his job, I had a glimpse into the slot that Satan has reserved for me—a marriage with a phys ed teacher who loves his job because it combines his two loves: physical fitness and children. I mean, let’s be real. The closest thing I come to loving children is wanting them so they can act as my get out of jail (aka work) free card. And my definition of physical fitness involves dancing on bars at three am and purging when I have alcohol poisoning. Snorting white powder off of a toilet seat optional for the evening’s events. Within the first thirty seconds of the dating interview we knew that we were not compatible.

These five minute mini-interviews are supposed to offer a glimpse into future compatibility and possible soulmate-ness of the person seated across. You put on your game face and answer the same two questions for all fifteen prospective dates: “What do you do for a living?” and “What do you do for fun?” You each take turns giving mini-bios but in the end, no matter their accomplishments, it really doesn’t matter. It all comes down to that thirty second look up and down. The personality is icing on the cake, confirming what you already knew from the initial meeting. Is there chemistry for a potentially hot romp in bed?

While most of the guys weren’t good looking nor Jewish (it was during Passover) the women were smokin’. To be perfectly honest, I was in the fifty-percentile of hotness, there were several women much more attractive than me who were also a hellauva lot more open minded. They thought that it was cute that most of the guys were teachers and the woman sitting next to me reminded me why I am perpetually single. She was breathtakingly beautiful, not model gorgeous that would intimidate but that smiley wholesome girl next door look. Throughout the night I kept glancing at her card, curious to see who she found attractive. Wondering if I had been too liberal with my five yeses. I saw that she checked off most of the guys, including the ones who I refused to give the time of day, a chance to meet after the Hurry Date. How the hell could I, the cynical drunk girl compete with the sweet wholesome girl next door who believed in giving most of the guys who she met chances?

But that is the beauty of Hurry Date. Those committed to the cause will check off all that they can and try to pursue all the possibilities of compatibility. Thoughtful, reasonable expectations of what the evening is supposed to bring: a dinner with some good conversation at a later date.

My Hurry Date experience cemented what I already know about myself. Why it is perfect for someone like me who can tell a lot about a person in the first five minutes but also how I could spend thousands of dollars until I find someone who I will entertain the thought of going out for a dinner with. I am not a rational person, especially with affairs of the heart. I am passionate and I need to feel that cataclysmal crash of emotion. I crave that feeling of being so in love that you feel owned by your emotions. That space where rational thought ceases to exist, where all that matters is how you feel when you are with that person.

I, readers, contrary to what I say, am a die hard romantic.

However, until I encounter that feeling again, I am trying to keep a more open mind. This is especially helpful now that the summer is here and I am on the prowl. Despite Hurry Date introducing me to thirteen teachers and all of the guys who I liked didn’t like me back, it was worth it just to meet the dude from Craigslist. Because, of course I am sure that once of these days I would have emailed him on a boring Sunday night.

So, seeing how there was an inverse relationship to my Hurry Date luck with the amount of alcohol consumed, I am actually curious to give it another try. This time sober, with my friend Rachel, and I’ll wear tight jeans, heels, and a sweater that showcases my large boobies. Let’s see how I would do then.

I refuse to be a Hurry Date reject.