Can't Hurry Love.

Great.

 

I was two days from another attempt at speed dating when I got an allergic reaction to something that left my face looking something like that of the kid in “Mask.” It wouldn’t have been so bad, if it weren’t for the fact that I had made a resolution the year before to not pass up any chance to meet someone. So I had to go. I just had to.

The other part that sucked was that I had spent the last four speed dating sessions trying to convince the other guys (in five-minute increments) that I was not a troll. The coming Monday would be very tricky since my eyes were now the size of penny loafer slits and my lips were the size of the Duchess of Alba’s. But still, I had to go.

You see, speed dating was actually quite fun. For those not familiar with it, it is an evening where a dozen or so guys are paired up (clothed), for eight-minutes at a time to see if there is any spark whatsoever, if there is—you get their contact info. If not, you got free appetizers and met some nice (albeit incompatible) people. I became a self-confessed speed dating whore, but possessed the luck and sheer determination of Susan Lucci. Try as I did, I was never chosen. But I kept trying. Lord, did I try. 

Finally, after a few weeks I gave up on the whole speed-dating thing. After fifty years, I’ve pretty much given up on dating in general. The only selling of myself I do now, is trying to finagle my way into the occasional senior discount.