Dana Norris is the founder of Story Club. She once went on 71 internet dates.
I sign up for speed dating because it makes me incredibly nervous. Talk to a bunch of strange men for two hours while they judge you? Sounds like a form of punishment. But I’m getting too comfortable spending most evenings alone in my apartment and I need to push myself.
When I do venture outside I tend to avoid a key aspect of single life—the random flirt. I’m at the grocery store, trying to find the one ripe avocado in a pile, and I look up to see an age-appropriate man perusing the tomatoes and smiling at me. My immediate reaction is always, always, to drop the avocado and run away to frozen foods. Because I don’t know what to do. Smile at him? But then maybe he’ll want to talk to me. And what do I say? I don’t know any good words to say.
I realize that I need to open myself up to meeting men randomly in the world. I need to train myself to hold casual conversations with strangers. I need to take a breath and look that tomato man in the eye and smile the fuck back. And I’m hoping that speed dating will help.
An hour before speed dating is supposed to start I’m at the Lincolnwood Mall, searching for something halfway decent to wear. I’ve decided that all of the pants, skirts, shirts, and dresses I already own are wholly unattractive, but unfortunately Lincolnwood Mall is fairly small and doesn’t have a lot of “stores” that sell “good things.” I end up at a store called “Body Talk,” which is a women’s clothing store dedicated to selling dresses that show off as much of your areola as possible. I pick a lovely blue dress that’s cut down to my navel, try it on, and decide that with a tank top underneath it will do fine. I also purchase some knee-high black boots because I’m hoping to have sex again one day and I want my footwear to convey that message.
The speed dating event is held at a bookstore across the street from where I live. I’m able to make it on time but I show up a bit late anyway because, even though I’m about to engage in an event where the goal is talk to new people, I have no interest in showing up early and talking to new people. I stroll in right at the stroke of 8:05pm and I’m dismayed to find that the event is far from starting. I check in and a smiling man in a too-tight shirt hands me a name tag. Now, where do I place this nametag? So as to draw attention toward my cleavage? So as to draw attention away from cleavage? How about right over my nipple? I pick the cleavage-enhancing option. This book store serves wine and beer so I purchase myself a bottle of La Fin Du Monde and then go hide in the stacks, pretending to look at the new nonfiction books until it’s time to sit down and start speed dating.
And then they announce that the speed dating is about to begin. We are each given a card with a list of numbers on it. They explain that the women will stay seated while the men move around. They explain that when the men sit down we’ll have five minutes to have a conversation and find out all about each other. When the buzzer rings we’ll have a moment to quickly jot down a few notes about the person we just spoke with, “# 3: blonde guy, loves his mom, weird tie,” before we move on to our next “date.” They tell us to take good notes because at the end of the evening we’ll have to mark down “yes” or “no” next to each number to indicate if we’d be interested in dating this person outside of the confines of a speed dating event. They say, “Go!”
Immediately 50 strangers begin talking to each other at the exact same moment and the sudden rush of noise is overwhelming. Everyone has to lean in across their tables to hear the other person. The first man and I begin our date.
First man: “Hi! I’m Phil.”
Me: “Hi, Phil, I’m Dana.”
Phil: “So, what do you do for a living?”
And we’re off. Except for the fact that my answer to the question, “What do you do for a living?” is usually, “I analyze customer accounts for an industrial supply company—shall I go on?” Phil thinks that my job is super interesting, which it isn’t, but good on him for making nice conversation. We talk about his job, which I can’t remember, and the buzzer dings and he moves along and the next man sits down.
Next man: “Hi! I’m Mark.”
Me: “Hi, Mark, I’m Dana.”
Mark: “So, what do you do for a living?”
I don’t want to spend this time talking about jobs because I don’t particularly care about what strange men do for a living. Some of them may have super interesting jobs that are their life’s passion, but the vast majority likely work in offices doing routine things that they don’t especially care about. I want to take the five minutes we have and use it to delve into something real. I want to know what they care about. I decide that I need to start taking the initiative and asking the kinds of questions that will really reveal some interesting truths about these men.
Me: “Hi, I’m Dana.”
Third man: “Hi, Dana, I’m Anthony.”
Me: “So, what’s in the trunk of your car?”
I ask questions about what they ate for lunch that day and what they’re most looking forward to. Some of the men are put off by my line of questioning, and many can’t think of a single thing that they’re looking forward to, but some of them seem to dig it. And as the next man sits down, and the next one, and the next one, I find myself getting into a sort of flow. It reminds me of when I’m doing improv and it’s going really well. You don’t know why it’s working or how it’s working and you don’t especially care because you’re too busy just rolling with it. I discover that improv and speed dating use the exact same skill—the improbable belief that, even though you have no idea what you’re going to say, when you open your mouth you will somehow say sensical words. And then the other person will also open their mouths and somehow say sensical words and then you’ll somehow fall into an actual, human moment where no one looks stupid and everything is OK.
The next man is named Max and he breaks the “name- name- question” pattern by sitting down and taking a long moment to give me a full up-and-down evaluative look. Then he smiles and says, “Do you work out? You look like you work out.” I swallow sharply to keep from giggling because, is this Venice Beach in 1986? Who says that to another person? I ask Max if he works out, which is clearly the question he wants to answer. He talks about working out and how awesome it is until the buzzer rings. As he gets up to move to the next table he comments, “Nice boots. I’m totally marking you down as a ‘yes.’” I smile and say, “OK,” while I quickly mark him down as “no.”
Two hours later I’ve spoken with 25 different men and I feel amazing. The speed dating event is over but I’m not done yet. I get myself another beer and hang around the bookstore, chatting with a few of men and women from the event. Look at me! Talking to strangers and forgetting to feel weird about it!
The bookstore is closing so we have to leave, but I don’t want to go home. I’m revved up. I text a few friends until I find someone willing to go to a bar with me. At the bar I’m a flirting machine: Hey, hot guy with glasses leaning on the bar, I like your tattoo! Hey, guy ordering that new beer I’m not familiar with, is that beer super hoppy? Hey, bartender who seems to be annoyed by everyone, what book are you reading? Apparently, speed dating is my equivalent of exposure therapy. It forced me to talk to so many strange dudes that I find I’m no longer worried about talking to anyone. If the conversation goes well and we end up falling in love and getting married: great. If the conversation doesn’t go well or he thinks I’m a weirdo: that’s cool too. There are like 50 other dudes in this bar and I’ll just move along and chat with the next one.
I only go on one actual date as a result of this speed dating event, and the date itself is a total bust, but I’m not even all that disappointed. Because now I know that speed dating isn’t there to help me find a date. Speed dating is there to show me that flirting with strange men can be a damn good time.
Dana Norris is the founder and host of Story Club, a monthly show for stories in Chicago. She has been published in Tampa Review, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and The Rumpus. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Northwestern University. She performs around Chicago you may find a list of upcoming shows at www.dananorris.net.
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