I wasn’t keen on the concept of paying to go on a bunch of quick-fire dates with random guys off the street, but I keep telling myself it’s important to keep all my options open so I thought “why not?”.
A few nights ago I went speed-dating for the third and final time. As arrival time came and went, it was soon obvious that the ratio of girls to guys was unbalanced with around twenty girls and only eight guys. Wellington has a serious available man-drought these days, what’s up with that?! I remember assuming it would all be relatively painless and the night would be over quickly – I was wrong!
The first guy I spoke to was Jason and I think he had something stuck in his throat because every time it was my turn to talk he made that horrible nasal/throat-clearing sound and spit flem into an empty glass. GROSS!
There were a couple of guys between Jason and the final guy who were nice enough, but they were a little too old for me – my mother would kill me if I started dating someone almost in their 40s – she’s kind of judgmental like that!
The final guy I spoke to was a guy called Otis who smelled like he just crawled out of the southern landfill. Whatever that smell was, it will now be remembered as the accompanying scent from the longest five minutes of my life. When they finally announced the final five minutes were up, I had to bolt to the bathroom to stop myself spewing. I walked out of the cubicle a few minutes later to see two of the other speed-dating women, they looked at me and said “feral guy?”. I just nodded and stared at them in a jaded state of disbelief.
I’m feeling pretty stink about all this now though because I keep hearing awesome stories about friends who found the love of their life through speed-dating. However, I’ve now been on three of these nights of self-inflicted torture and I’ve decided I don’t have the stomach (or the deep pockets) to make it work for me. At least I’ve got Colin to keep me company, he’s a mouse and he’s super-awesome.