“You have that Wednesday Addams vibe.”
I screamed.
I was wearing my best armor: a black dress that accentuated my curves, a striped bolero to cover the arms I've resented for years, and black platform sandals with ruby tips. My dark hair had wild, voluminous curls and my sultry makeup was topped off with a tempting lip blush from Chanel.
I would have preferred if the gentleman at the speed dating event had compared my efforts to at least Morticia, a grown woman. But in this crowd of men and women ranging in age from 21 to 40, I guess my baby face gave me away.
My mind wandered back to a conversation I had with my physical therapist about modern love: dating in Los Angeles has become monotonous.
The applications were oversaturated and disappointing. And it seemed harder than ever to meet someone in person naturally.
He told me about his recent endeavor into speed dating: events that sponsor timed one-on-one “dates” with multiple candidates. I applauded his bravery, but I had almost forgotten the conversation.
Two years later, I had reached my boiling point with Jesse, a guy I met online (naturally) a few months earlier who was good on paper but bad in practice.
Knowing that my best friend was in a similar situation, I found myself suggesting a curious social alternative.
Much of my knowledge about speed dating came from movies. Usually it was a hopeless, down-on-his-luck romantic or a mature workaholic trying to be more spontaneous in his love life, sitting in front of a montage of cartoons: the socially challenged geek stumbling over his special interests; the arrogant businessman who diverts most of his attention to his Blackberry; the pseudo-smooth womanizer whose words sound rehearsed and cloying.
However, I was desperate for a good distraction. So we bought tickets to a straight singles event a few hours later.
Upon entering Oldfield's liquor room, I noticed that it looked like a normal bar, all dark wood and dimly lit. Except his clients flanked the perimeter of the space, speaking quietly, sizing up the opposite sex.
Suddenly in need of some liquid courage, we ran back to the car to enjoy the shooters we bought on the way to the venue: three for $6. I had already handed over $30 for my ticket and wasn't paying for L.A.-priced cocktails. Ten minutes later, we were ready to socialize.
The bar's backyard was decorated with tea lights and potted palm trees. House-pop music got me moving as I perused the picnic tables covered with conversation starters like “What's your favorite sex position?” Half amused and half horrified, I decided to use my own material.
We found our seats as the host began the introductions. Each appointment would last two minutes: a buzzer would alert the men when it was time to move to the next seat clockwise. I exchanged hopeful glances with the women around me.
The doorbell rang and I felt my buzz diminish considerably as my first date sat down. This was really happening.
Soft brown eyes greeted me. He was polite and responsive, gave adequate answers to my questions but rarely answered my questions. I felt like he was looking through me and not at me, like he'd decided I wasn't his type and was biding his time until the bell rang. I didn't take it personally.
Bachelor number 2 was over six feet tall, had caramel brown hair, and emerald eyes. He exuded confidence and warmth as he talked about how recovering from an accident a few years earlier inspired him to become a physical therapist.
I tried not to focus on how his story was almost perfect for the one I heard him tell to the woman in front of me. He offered to show me a large surgery scar and rolled up his right sleeve to reveal pale pink flesh and a well-trained bicep. Despite its obvious good looks and small-town charm, something suspicious gnawed at me. I later learned that it had left the same effect on most women.
My nose received Bachelor No. 3 before my eyes. His spicy cologne quickly enveloped my senses. He had a huge presence, he seemed to be a character in himself, so I asked him about his current favorite watch.
“I love 'The Summer I Turned Pretty,'” she actually said.
“Actually?”
“Oh yeah, it's my favorite. Oh, and 'Wednesday'. You have a little bit of that Wednesday Addams vibe.”
I was completely taken aback by listening to this 40-something man's favorite shows centered on teenage girls, and by his standards, I looked like one of them. Where was the host of the damn bell?
Although some conversations clearly left impressions, most of the dates were transformed into remnants of information such as fintech, middle brother, cat allergy, etc. Maybe two minutes was too short to generate genuine chemistry.
After a quick lap around the post-date meeting, we practically ran to the car. A millisecond after the doors closed, my friend said, “I think I'll call him.” I knew he wasn't referring to any of the men we met tonight. The last hours were all in vain. “And you should call Jesse.”
I mocked his audacity.
When I got home and called it, it only rang once.
The next three hours of witty banter and shameless innuendos were a blessing until the call ended on a low note, and I remembered why I tried speed dating in the first place.
Jesse and I had great chemistry but in the end we were incompatible. He preferred to live life within his comfort zone while I craved adventure and variety. He couldn't see the past right now and I was too busy planning for the future to live in the moment.
Still, in a three-hour call, long before the topic of engagement soured things, we laughed at the mundanity of our days, exchanged the wildest dreams for embarrassing anecdotes, and expressed loving intentions that would make Aphrodite's cheeks heat up.
Why couldn't I have had a conversation like that with someone at the event?
It's possible that I was hoping to find the perfect replica of my relationship with Jesse. But when I had the opportunity to meet someone new, I reserved my humor and empathy.
Also, despite knowing that Jesse and I weren't a good match, I thought we had a “casual connection” that I needed to protect. Actually, if I had shown up to speed dating as my full self, that would have been more than enough to ignite sparks with a new flame.
It would be several more weeks before I was ready to release my attachment to Jesse. But when I did, I had a better appreciation for myself and my ability to love.
The author is a multidisciplinary writer and mother living in Encino.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
Editor's Note: On April 3, LA Affairs Live, our new storytelling competition show, will feature real dating stories from people living in the greater Los Angeles area. Tickets for our first event will be on sale starting Tuesday.
