Can you get to know someone in eight minutes? No, but that’s not always such a bad thing.
Forget “What’s your sign?”
What speed daters really want to know as they mingle in awkward anticipation: “Have you ever done this before?”
I heard it first from a guy standing near the bar, eyes on the TV but not really watching the hockey game.
He was cute. He was nice. And like me – and the other two dozen speed daters gathering in a South Portland restaurant for one of the oddest experiences ever – he seemed nervous.
“No,” I said just as a bell rang, signaling the start of the eight-minute dates. “I guess we’ll see.”
The bell
I’m female. Single. Thirty years old. A generation ago I might have hung out at a bar. This is the new millennium. I went speed dating.
Single strangers are randomly paired for a series of getting-to-know-you conversations. Think a blind date that lasts only as long as a drink. An eight-minute drink, for those of us using the 8minuteDating service.
Speed dating events happen in Maine every month and are usually geared toward an age group. Mine was offered for 25- to 35-year-olds. Held days before Valentine’s Day, organizers billed it as a Cupid Party.
If I found someone I liked, I would log onto the 8minuteDating Web site later and choose his name. If he also chose my name, the computer would forward our contact information.
Daters use only first names. Rules prohibit people from swapping phone numbers, making it as low-pressure as dating can be.
Thirteen women (giggly, most with friends) and 13 men (not giggly, mostly alone) paid up to $35 each for the event. For two hours our lives would be governed by The Bell. It rang to start the dates, to end the dates, to signal intermission.
Ding.
Let the dating begin
Date 1: Les, a 30-something who liked fantasy novels.
At least I think that’s what he said.
Our table seemed to be right under a music speaker. Les spoke softly and the blare of ’80s rock ballads didn’t help. For five minutes I leaned forward and said “What?” a lot. After that, I just nodded and smiled and waited for the bell.
Eight dates at eight minutes each. Great start. Would they all go this way?
Thankfully, no.
Date 2: I moved to a different table, a different date: Clay. He spoke up and the music wasn’t quite so loud.
“Have you ever done this before?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “You?”
“No.”
Long pause.
“So …” I said.
After a few minutes, I found out he was a computer guy who lived in the area. His father happened to be a newspaper editor. He liked –
Ding.
Date 3: Paul was bald, cute, around my age. He worked in the family business (didn’t elaborate) and yearned to do something to change the world (didn’t elaborate).
Ding.
Date 4: Steve was so nervous he read directly from the cue card organizers had given us. Where did you grow up? What do you do for fun? What’s the best trip you’ve ever taken?
He won points by gushing unabashedly about his Shar-Pei puppy. But he seemed older than the night’s 25-35 age range.
Turns out he was a retired postal worker with a teenage son.
Ding.
Talk, talk, talk
At intermission, I wanted to talk with the guy I’d met mingling. But he was flanked on each side by a pair of giggling women.
I got a Diet Coke from the bar. Everyone else seemed to be going with something stronger.
Date 5: Paul again (bald, cute, around my age). It was a random stroke of luck. With eight more minutes, we had time to relax a little. After all, we’d already moved past “So, ever done this before?”
He liked to bike. He was into the environment. He was nearly a vegetarian.
We weren’t a complete match, but I liked him. In the dating score card organizers had given me, I put a note next to his name. “Maybe.” He wrote something down in his.
Ding.
Date 6: Seoras (pronounced SHOR-russ).
“It’s Scottish. That’s where I’m from,” he said with a tinge of brogue.
We chatted easily, sometimes excitedly, comparing favorite authors and favorite books. He asked me about my writing. I asked him about his job.
We seemed to click. For the first time, I checked off “second date” in my card.
Ding.
Date 7: Rafael, an immigration attorney from Peru. The conversation went fast, smooth, with few pauses.
Ding.
Date 8: David, a grad student who had a ready list of favorite TV shows, including “The Simpsons” and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” For the first time, I got a new answer to the question “Have you ever done this before?”
“Twice,” he said.
He liked eight-minute dates, though not the loose mingling that accompanied it.
“If I was good at mingling, I wouldn’t be here,” he said.
By the end, I’d had eight dates. I noticed that many of the guys were in college or grad school. Most others worked with computers.
As luck would have it, the guy I’d met mingling – the one I really wanted to talk with – was never one of my eight dates.
I found him after the session was over.
“I thought you were really cute,” I told him. “I wondered if I could get your name.”
After eight conversations with perfect strangers, I was over any shyness.
I left with the names of three guys I’d like to see again. It was more than I’d ever get working or staying home – my average Thursday night.
But as I left, I found a few other women still preferred the old-fashioned way to find a Valentine.
They were hitting on the bartender.
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