Friday, April 8, 2011

Funny things I should have written about

So, I'm very sad to hear that one of my favorite dating (online and otherwise) blogs, Sexy Typewriter, is no longer going to be a dating blog (damn you, functioning relationships).

But it got me thinking of recent Hilarious Dating Experiences, of which I've not really had any, because I don't date anymore (thank you, functioning relationships). And I've never really been much of a Dater, anyway, because I am that most horrible of creatures, the multi-tentacled, insidious Serial Monogamist. Sure, go one a date with me - but only if you're cool with me locking it down for approximately the next two years, sucking all the fun out of your life, and then abruptly vanishing.

But, anyway, I did go speed dating with my friends, because 1) it's funny and 2) see number 1). I've never done speed dating before, or online dating, or any sort of organized approach to dating, preferring instead to find my partners the old-fashioned way - drunk in a bar. Which makes me the two-year hangover from Hell.

This particular speed dating service had it organized so that two women paired up and terrified  talked to one guy at a time. I'm not sure if this is done as a sort of homage to how cheetahs work in a team to bring down a gazelle, or if it's just a numbers thing - the Greater Metropolitan Area is skewed with more women than men (but we're nowhere near as bad as New York City, where you should just give up now). But it reminded me of college, because I went to a university that was overwhelmingly female - seriously, the ratio was something like 70% - 30% - and it was like some Lord of the Fliesian mashup of the Law of the Jungle and the Law of Supply and Demand, but with a lot more lip gloss. The guys? All they had to do was show up, not be in the fashion design program, and not have scabies (or be willing to lie about not having scabies) and they were treated to an endless buffet of Young College Girl.

The girls? Most gave up and went to the other universities on the weekends. It wasn't unusual to see carloads of guys from the barracks come cruising around, because the aura of desperation (which smells kind of like Victoria's Secret's most noxious vanilla perfume) permeated the air around campus, and it was easy pickings.

But back to speed dating - the organizers of this event had a combination of pity/terror on their faces as they handed out our little nametags. I so wanted to put a fake name on mine, but that was forbidden (and anyway they already had my e-mail address).

So we paired up and perched on these horribly incomfortable white-leather-covered cube chair-like things, where I kept sliding dangerously close to the edge. The women got to remain stationary while the guys rotated. The cubes were so close to the ground that you sort of had to cantilever yourself up and heave to get back on your feel, and it was almost impossible to avoid showing your underwear unless you contorted yourself into a pretzel. Seriously, these chair-like abominations were so close to the ground, my knees were about level with my face.

The most memorable guys from that evening included one wearing a red-and-white checked gingham shirt with a dark blue velvet blazer with elbow patches and jeans. And he was also baked out of his mind. Seriously, his pupils were the size of quarters. He bore an uncanny resemblance to whichever one of the English princes is a racist ginger. There was also a guy with a noticeable twitch, one who was so blasted that he nearly fell off of the couch, one who informed us that he would not ask boring questions like 'what do you do?' or 'what are you interested in?' (I was going to say monkey wrangler, and suspending myself from hooks in the skin of my back, but I think it's boring too!). And since I have this horrible tendency to talkalotandquitefast with big, expansive hand gestures when I'm nervous - which I blame entirely on my Italian mother, when we have an argument it's like we're all simultaneously trying to land a plane and referee a football game- the rest all looked like a gazelle that realizes it's all alone at the watering hole and there are ears peeking above the grass.

This is what a springbok does when it's scared. It's called pronking.

The women to the right of us got progressively drunker and drunker, and because this place had the acoustics (and general charm) of a VFW hall, their shrieks began echoing off of all the exposed cement and threatening to shatter our drink glasses.

Of course (thank you, functioning relationship) I was already approaching this whole experience wearing I'm Not Interested In You glasses, but my single companions were equally horrified.

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