How to Successfully Fail at Speed-Dating

a field guide for introverts and obsessive note takers

Friends with Words is a newsletter about language, culture, and identity, created by a Russian-born, Israel-based essayist, linguist, former world traveler, and single mom.

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How did I end up here anyway? WTF. Speed-dating? Not just dating, but speed-dating? My friend Emma texted me two days earlier: "What are you doing on Thursday night?"

"Umm… Nothing… Why?" ("Nothing" in my world never means literally "nothing," it just means no appointments with important people, just routine kid-related or home-related stuff.)

She said, "I have an idea,” and sent me a link to a speed dating event.

I looked at it: a picture of a couple talking over wine. Surprisingly, I didn't feel my usual immediate aversion (I got divorced seven years ago and have been happily single ever since). Instead, something washed over me that I can only call mild curiosity.

I said, "You know what? It's not such a bad idea actually... but I can't make it this time. Maya has a competition early Friday and we're sleeping over at my brother's place in Petah Tikva so we can leave from there in the morning.”

She said, "I can give you a lift to Petah Tikva when it’s over?"

"OK… Lemme… think about it…. "

I thought about it. Then I texted another gymnastics mom and asked if we could get a ride with them on Friday. Something I should have done anyway, but I didn't because I suck at asking for help. She said yeah sure. So that problem was solved.

I started looking for other ways out. Why was I looking for ways out? Couldn't I just say no? I could. But I didn't want to. It was some sort of curiosity mixed with some strange gut feeling… Now, if it were a "singles party" or "divorcee party", I would have said "no" right away. Mingling? God, no. But there was something strangely appealing about the structure of a speed dating event, as silly as it sounded.

Maybe it's the silliness that attracted me, or maybe I needed to shake something up in my life. It had become too predictable and too unsafe at the same time. Maybe I needed to step out of my comfort zone. Maybe it had something to do with my mom's deterioration and the general feeling that life is too short and I might die tomorrow without having ever been to a speed dating event.

So I said yes. And then quickly, before reason had a chance to come back online, me and my crazy gut feeling registered us for the event. Then reason did come back online almost immediately and started freaking out: "Why oh why? Are you crazy?" But it was too late. I've already registered and paid.

I texted Emma: "Why am I doing this? I don't even want to date, let alone speed date."

She said, "What's the worst that can happen?"

"That it will be a disaster and I'll be exhausted, but I'll be able to write about it."

"Exactly."

Two days later, Emma and I were standing in a reception room on the 15th floor of a high-rise building in Tel Aviv, holding our wine glasses and watching other people mingling.

By that point, Emma had managed to spill a bottle of wine onto the white tablecloth, and I’d spilled a glass of water onto the floor. Other people, instead of spilling things, were busy mingling happily. We were just sort of standing there.

"So… This part we're not so great at," Emma said. "Yeah, No." I agreed, swiveling my glass of wine, which I was holding just so I could hold something (I don't like wine.)

All the mingling people were dressed fancily. There was a woman wearing an electric blue dress with a bright electric orange scarf around her neck. It burned my eyes just to look at her. I was dressed fancily too. I was wearing my favorite t-shirt and my favorite jeans and my favorite Vibram five fingers showing off all my favorite five toes on each of my favorite feet.

After the pre-event mingling was over, the rules were explained to us: the women would sit on one side of the long table, and the men would sit on the other side, and every three minutes, a timer would ring and the men would have to move to the next chair. Each woman, we were told, was guaranteed to meet all 25 men.

(At this point, my brain started short-circuiting. I'm going to have to talk to 25 freaking strangers on a single night?? I don't think I talk to this many people in a year!)

But surprisingly, other than the scary number of people I was supposed to talk to, I actually kinda liked this setup. I liked that I would sit there with a piece of paper and a pen and interview each man and write things down about them. It's as if I were an employer considering them for a position in the corporation of my life.

The organizer told us we should take notes about each person and circle the people we want to meet later. "Take notes," he emphasized, "Because, when the event is over and you match with someone, you won't remember who that is." I took that instruction to heart, the A student that I am.

Finally, the clock started running.

The first question everyone asked, as soon as they plopped down in front of me, was "Where are you from?" Maybe it's my very exotic name, or my accent, or maybe this is what people always ask each other when they first meet, or maybe they just felt awkward and didn't know what else to ask.

But it took too long to tell the whole story, so after the first few men, I realized this was not the way to get to know 25 people in 3-minute conversations, so I learned to blitz through the "where are you from” exchange. I now skipped which city I came from since it's not what they meant, and went straight for the gold: "born in Russia, made aliyah at 15, left at 22 and lived abroad for 16 years, came back six years ago." That whole tirade took only 10 seconds of the three minutes allotted to us.

That made it possible to veer into topics other than my fascinating origin story. One guy, for example, spoke Georgian. I got very excited and told him the only sentence I know in Georgian: Baq'aq'i ts'q'alshi q'iq'inebs. "A frog is croaking in the water."

It's a sentence I learned from a Georgian-speaking classmate in high school and is apparently often taught by Georgians to torture non-Georgians because it's so hard to pronounce. The Georgian-speaking guy took the time to correct my Georgian accent and then the timer beeped again.

I have to say I weirdly liked the 3-minute conversation format. In fact, I wish all human interactions had a well-defined time limit. Because things can (and do) get awkward when you never know 1) how and when to start a conversation, 2) how and when to end it.

Only I didn't like that there was no break between the 3-minute conversations. Just as I'd start taking notes about the guy I just talked to ("creepy" or "talks about his ex-wife" or "green t-shirt, sang in a choir as a boy"), there would be another male face in front of me. After about five guys, my head started spinning. I couldn't remember anything anymore about the first 2-3 guys I spoke to, and my notes didn't help.

In the break between men (blissfully, there were more women than men), I was frantically filling gaps in my notes, trying to remember who "Simon" was beyond the fact that he lives in Bat-Yam. Everyone around me was either interviewing men or sitting calmly looking around. Nobody else was frantically scribbling. How were they already finished??

I flashed back to elementary school — everyone done and yawning or passing notes while I was still sweating over details. All because the assignment said "Write a story in five sentences entitled "‘My summer vacation,’” but I'd missed the ‘five sentences’ part and was on page 3 and still not off the plane.

Emma tapped me on the shoulder. She also had a break. "What are you doing?!?" She doubled with laughter looking at my notes. "I can't keep up! I'm so behind!" I panted, "I don't remember anyone anymore!"

"Do you know you're supposed to give this paper to the organizers?"

Oh shit. "Then how am I supposed to remember things about these people?"

"You're not. You just mark the guys that you like and ignore everybody else."

Oh my god. I realized I was totally focused on the wrong task - building a complete database of all 25 men in this room, maybe to decide who I wanted to date, but also just because.

During another break, I spoke to the woman next to me - Malka, a filmmaker from Jerusalem who makes spiritual comedy. I admitted I didn't even know there was a genre called spiritual comedy. She gave me her card.

It turned out she also spoke Georgian. She was born here but her parents are from Georgia. I immediately said the sentence about the frog again. She helped me break it down:

"Say Baq'aq'i"

"Baq'aq'i"…I leaned in to hear her over the chattering crowd.

"Ts'q'alshi - that means 'in the water.'"

"Ts'q'alshi…"

"Q'iq'inebs”

"Q'iq'inebs…

"'Q'iq'inebs' means 'croaking'"

“Baq'aq'i… ts'q'alshi… q'iq'inebs…" I said the whole thing again. "Is that right?"

"Yes, perfect." She laughed. "So, what kind of guy are you looking for? Maybe I have someone for you."

I looked at the ceiling, thinking. "See, I'm not actually looking for a guy, I'm pretty happy on my own. So I guess I need a guy who is also not looking for anyone and is happy on his own?"

She looked at me funny.

I emerged from the event (mostly) unscathed. There was a siren at some point and we all had to stand on the stairwell for 10 minutes. It was the first time ever I was happy there was a siren: it meant a break from talking so I could complete my notes. I felt like I got an unexpected reprieve in the middle of a tough exam. Some people continued their conversations, but I was looking at everyone's nametags and matching names to faces so I could update my meticulous 25-random-people database.

The database came in handy later. As we drove back, every time Emma asked, "Who was Michael, again?" I'd pull out my sheet and give her the complete details: bald, surgeon, three kids, likes opera.

As for me, I never even looked at that database.

All it did was confirm what I’d long suspected about myself: that I can so totally push myself way out of my comfort zone, but only if it's done in a comfortable, structured, and predictable way. Preferably with a piece of paper to take elaborate notes on.

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