So I'm not what you would call a player. I don't attract men in droves despite my self described great looks, awesome personality and sincere humility. I have been in DC for just about a year now and have not really "clicked" with anyone who's name I remembered once I sobered up. As a young and somewhat reckless woman I have taken it upon myself to meet men in new and awkward ways. About four months ago this decision manifested itself in the form of speed-dating. My rationale was that I couldn't possibly scare men off in less than four minutes...I was wrong.
Merin, a dear friend and colleague who is likewise young and reckless suggested we attempt to broaden our social horizons by attending an event put on by a popular young professionals networking organization here in DCizzle. We checked the website regularly for events that might be fun and despite a real desire to go on their haunted hayride or singles trip to Costa Rica, we just couldn't find time in our hectic 9-5 schedules of MTV reality shows and g-chat. Finally in early February after many months of complaining that we didn't meet enough guys at work, the gym or the grocery store, we signed up for a four minute speed dating event being held at what we were assured by a catchy tag line is the trendiest bar in DC. We doled out $25 for the event which came with an hour of open bar after you meet men and hopefully fall in love.
The event started at 8:00 PM on a Friday evening. Getting out of work right at 5 and not having much to do beside put on some make up and a super slutty outfit, I pregamed the event with a couple glasses of wine. You know, loosen up before all the quick dates. Now normally I'm a real stickler for punctuality, if you are late I hate you, plain and simple. However, due to events outside my control (too much wine made me mess up my make-up and start all over again), I arrived at the even at about 8:30PM.
I walk into the ultra hip lounge bar and am hit by the overwhelming smell of Axe. This smell is appropriately accompanied by the sight of about 40 men with thickly gelled hair and at least ten visibly worn pukka shell necklaces. I could tell this night was going to be a blast. I was quickly given a name tag and placed in line with the other women, opposite a line of men. The way it works is you talk to the person directly across from you, switching to the next person every four minutes. If you like the person you are talking to you write their name and ID number down on an index card provided by the event organizers. If they like you, they do the same. At the end of the night the index cards are collected and if there are any matches the contact info is distributed and love ensues.
My first suitor was a fellow named Cesar. Cesar was a small man, no bigger than my thumb. Well okay, slightly bigger than my thumb, but not by much. He had a very close cropped mushroom cut that was parted right down the middle of his small little head. The hair was held tight by a glossy sheen of gel. He was a lovely man. He laughed at all my horribly inappropriate jokes about dead babies (I'm not sure why I would tell a dead baby joke on a mini date but it seemed funny at the time) and didn't even comment on the fact that had I not been wearing three inch heels I still would have towered over his wee little frame.
My next date was a gentleman named Roger. Roger was different than the other men at the event. For starters he wasn't wearing any hair gel. That's probably because he was very seriously balding. He also wasn't wearing the uniform of the fitted oxford dress shirt and snug man Seven's. Instead he had on a really lovely sweater vest that matched his dockers to a tee. Like Cesar, Roger was not a man of great height. His be-speckled eye line probably hit just below my nose. Roger was not your typical "young professional", probably because he was in no way young. He was about 32.
Roger was quiet; timid. When you only have four minutes and are a little drunk, you have no patience for meager older men who look like they walked out of a JC Penny casual wear ad. I had no choice but to take the bull by the horns and thus started talking, rather excitedly, about the first thing that popped into my mind.
"I love cats!" I exclaimed somewhat louder than was necessary.
"Oh do you?" Roger asked, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.
"Yup, I have five cats." I then rattled off the first five words that came to mind, claiming these were the names of my newly created beloved cats. I believe one of the words was rocket. Roger feigned interest, or maybe he really cared, I'm not sure.
"I really love my cats," I continued. "I recently starting knitting too. Since my two favorite things are knitting and my cats I've been knitting mittens, mittens for my kittens!" At this point my excitement at my own cleverness could not be contained. I gesticulated wildly, making little paws with my hands, waving them around in the air. I believe I may have emitted a small meow in all the commotion. "They are so cute, the kitten mittens. I'm thinking about starting my own business knitting and selling them 'Kitten Mittens'." My wine soaked breath is littered with spittle and I can barely contain myself.
Finally the four minute bell rings and sadly little sweater-vest clad Roger moves on. No one else that night peaked my interest as much as the prospect of kittens wearing mittens did. Once the open bar started I dropped my index card somewhere between my third and fourth bourbon and diet.
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