In column 1, you wrote the number of the guy you're dating, in column 2 his name, and in column 3, what you ranked him on scale from "Maybe, let's have one more drink" to "Never in a million years" (no joke, it said that on the scale).
After mingling at the bar for a bit, we all sat down at a long table, where there was an empty chair next to each woman.
While online dating has totally shed the stigma that was long attached to it, speed dating is still largely seen as a last resort for desperate singles who have failed everywhere else in the dating pool...
for clueless men and women who naively think they’re going to meet their Prince Charmings and Snow Whites in a Times Square hotel meeting room. I pictured a snaking line of dolled-up girls changing seats at a dinging bell in front of a small handful of awkward, overwhelmed men. In fact, speed dating may actually be NYC’s best-kept dating secret.
The plan was to have the guests sit at a long table and draw one another’s portraits. All the men, the women joke, are across the street at Rock & Brews.
I vowed to go in with an open mind, and if I didn't come out of it with a date, I'd at least have a good story.
Inside, it looked more or less like a restaurant preparing itself for regular dinner service (dim lighting, candlelit tables), rather than the morose, clinical vision I had concocted of name tags, clipboards, and other trappings of business conferences.
People filed in one at a time and checked in with the hostess, who cleared their name from a list and handed them a card for keeping track of dates that night.
For the first two years, I just assumed I had suddenly gotten ugly and stupid.
Then I heard multitudes of other people voicing similar experiences.