by Grace Anders
I know it's perhaps a little old-school; after all, isn't that what Match.com and OkCupid are for nowadays? But to be honest, those sites share a lot of information that just about anyone can access. Speed dating is at least limited to 20 guys. And they can't email you over, and over, and over again, as anyone who has used an online dating site has probably experienced. At two messages it's flattering – at five, it's a little creepy.
Anyway, I decided to give this speed dating thing a try. I spent plenty of time prepping with friends, planning the best approach. We discussed a logical, learning experience type of event, where I would purposely try to make someone like me, not like me, act like a ditz, be overly political, etc., and then see whether I was able to predict whether or not guys would 'select me' for an actual date. I had a host of pick up lines ready, including my personal favorite: "Are you from the islands? 'Cause Ja-maican me crazy!"
Unfortunately, I fell victim to the obligatory winter cold that spreads through the subways faster than the rats, and woke up the morning of my speed date feeling like I could probably be classified as “bacteria” instead of “humanoid.” I rallied and went to work, and even planned on going to the speed dating event, having dressed accordingly in one of those “from work to play” outfits that everyone at J. Crew seems to execute with aplomb.
|No one wants to date this! --credit|
It only took about five minutes of sitting in the bar, however, waiting for my event to start, when I realized I couldn't follow through – besides, no one wants to date a girl with a bright red, tissue-scratched nose. I took a raincheck, and then squatted outside on the sidewalk to look at a subway map and figure out just where the hell I was, including whether I should suck it up and take a cab.
It was at this point I was approached by one of the most popular types of men in downtown Manhattan – the grown up frat boy. While I leaned against a wall, clearly not on my A-game, he decided to walk by and offer, “Little early to be drunk, isn't it?” While I would normally ignore the comments of this type of guy, as one has to do at nearly any bar near NYU, I took it as a personal offense that he would suggest I was drunk, and responded with my best 'stink-eye' type glare, and an equally eloquent, “I'm sick, bro.” And yes, I did put extra sarcasm on the “bro.”
|No frat boys, please! by Clinton Steeds via Flickr|
However, it was at this time that I realized he was actually pretty attractive, and I suspect he realized that I was actually sick. He asked where I was going and helped me figure out the best subway route, inquiring the whole time if I wanted him to hail a cab for me. This was odd behavior for the frat-boy type, who usually responds to a girl's sarcasm by high-fiving his pals and ordering another Pabst Blue Ribbon. He even offered to walk with me to the subway, and although I declined, I did take his number out of courtesy.
Once I was home in bed, safely tucked in with my tissues stocked and Netflix queued, I shot him a text to say thanks, as he did actually help me find my way home. He replied. Then I replied again. Then he did. And now, 200-plus texts and a week later, we're actually going on a date in a few days – a jazz recording (his choice.)
I know I usually end my New York dating stories with something sarcastic, but I'm excited about this one. It's been a long time since I met someone completely out of the blue, and it's actually a pretty cute story. I only vaguely know what he does, what he's like, or whether he makes a habit of hollering at sick girls, but I suppose these are things I'll find out on our first date. And if nothing comes of it, at least I finally have a sweet New York dating story of my own.
|Am I turning into a romantic?--credit|