This wasn’t my first rodeo. In fact, the first time I tried speed dating, it was such a bust that the organizers offered a free pass to try again with a younger age bracket. I’m still trying to shove the memories aside of the “I’m not over my ex-wife”, the “I’ve only been in the country for two weeks”, and the “I’ve got four kids, the oldest is 18.” And those were the good ones.
So I tried again, this time with the 23-37y.o. age group at a hip Atlanta club. A few girlfriends came along, one whom went with me last time and two who had never tried speed dating.
It HAD to be better than the last one, right?
I’ll let you decide.
These were some of the characters I spent my Friday night talking to.
- The Afflicted – Oh, honey. I just wanted to weep for you. Based on your facial tics and deformities, you have to have an awfully hard time dating. They were horribly distracting, but I did my best to make you feel comfortable and keep you laughing in our small talk. I give you enormous credit for showing up and toughing it out. And I hope no one was mean to you. Women can be assholes.
- The French Chemist – Loved your accent. Your “chemistry” with me? zzzzzzzzzzzz.
- The Bodybuilder – It wasn’t your bone-crushing handshake that killed it. (GODDAMNOUCH) It was that I didn’t know which of your eyes to look at while we were talking. They were kinda placed on your temples instead of by your… you know… NOSE. I wish I could post your profile’s shirtless picture here, because the fact that you deadlift 605lbs is pretty amazing. You were huge.
- The Jokester – You get points for making fun of your own heritage by calling yourself a banana. As you described it: white on the inside, yellow on outside. YOU: “I even went for halloween dressed as a giant banana.” ME: “Please tell me you danced and sang Peanut Butter Jelly Time.” YOU: “Are you kidding? I HAD TO!” You were a riot, but I still didn’t want to jump your bones.
- Dear Mr. High as a Kite Brazilian – I get that you just returned from Sao Paolo and it’s a 13hr flight. But do me a favor and don’t show up obviously toasted out of your mind. Do show up without the gum-smacking and a slight understanding of the concept of personal space. Thanks.
- Shortie #1 – oh, thank gawd I’m seated. Do you need a step stool, sweetie?
- Shortie #2 – COME ON, I SHOULDN’T BE ABLE TO PUNT YOU.
- Nerves McGee – forthelove, you’re sweating in your beer and your knee-bouncing is driving me batty. Chill the fuck out. They’re boobs, not landmines.
- Georgia Tech Guy – I don’t hate you on principle for being a Tech alumni this time, simply because you admitted that UGA’s football team was “way better” than yours. And you said I could quote you on that, so I did. Go Dawgs.
My night was going splendidly on the bachelor side, don’t you think? But oh, can we pretty please talk about the eligible bachelorettes, too?
Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit, but I feel strongly about not misrepresenting myself when it comes to dating and fashion. The bottom line is that I’ve fully accepted what my personal style is and is not. But good heavens, what I witnessed the other night was mostly tragic. And calls for more bullets.
- There were far too many body-hugging dresses that were painfully tight/short for the body in question. Trust me honey, we can alllllll see you tugging that hemline down so your hoohah stays covered. Just because it zips doesn’t mean it fits.
- If you can’t walk in the stilettos without looking like you’ve got some Christian Grey funballs hiding out where they don’t belong, don’t wear the damn things. Personally? The thought of wearing 5 inch, black patent leather with white patent hearts***, needle-spiked heels makes me whimper in anticipatory agony. Nuh UH. Not unless you are carrying my ass to and from the car and let me remain seated all night. And bring me drinks. Maybe I’m onto something here….
- Question. Did you go to MAC beforehand and pay someone to plaster that much makeup on your face or did you do that yourself? Because, talent.
- 1996 called. It wants its hot rollers and RAVE hairspray back. It’s speed dating. Not the Miss USA pageant.
***Actual IRL sighting.
How does Peach play it?
What I feel sexiest in: skinny jeans that flatter but still allow me to be able to sit down and remain capable of breathing. A beautiful top or sweater that accentuates my arms/shoulders/waist, in a color that brings out my eyes. A pair of stylish boots. Tasteful accessories that are classy without screaming omgIhavealabelobsession. Self-applied makeup that plays up my eyes/lips without looking like I’m about to tramp it up on the pole. Hair that is clean and styled so that it’s straight, smooth and looks touchable. Then I’m good to go. This. is. me.
You don’t like it? GTFO.
That means you, Mr. Bouncer who looked me up and down with a critical eye for apparently not meeting the establishment’s skank code.
At the end of the night, I was leaving once again with no interest in anyone I’d spoken to, and a ton of interest in going home and crawling into my huge bed to sleep like the dead. Because that. was. exhausting.
I think I’m done with this speed dating thing, y’all.