So, last week was Valentine’s Day. Don’t worry, I’m not about to bore you with a spiel on red paper hearts and roses and chocolates and how all of that cheap tat from China has ‘nothing to do with real love’. Neither will I write an embittered post about loved-up couples and how annoying they are. Nor will I write an impassioned post demanding that singles also receive a day in which they can celebrate their singledom, because, really, what’s so special about being a couple anyway, people can live their lives in whatever way they chose and families can take whatever form and surely we should all be past this heteornormative, middle-class 1950s view of the world with everyone living in loved-up pairs in colourful boxes in leafy, green suburbs by now.
I won’t do this, because on Valentine’s Day I demonstrated how obviously and pathetically I would like to be a loved-up, annoying couple, living in a colourful suburban box surrounded by irritatingly shaped boxes of candy. I demonstrated this by doing one of the more humiliating rituals of modern-day romantic life: speed-dating. Not satisfied by being rejected by one lousy person in one single evening? Now you can get rejected by 25 separate people in the space of two and a half hours! Its so much more time-effective! And confidence-crushing! But, I’m getting ahead of myself.
A week ago, a very good friend of mine asked me whether or not I’d be interested in going speed dating on Valentine’s Day. It was something I had always secretly thought might be quite amusing and fun. My attempts at internet dating had generally been quite disappointing, due to the fact that I had a tendency to choose men who were utterly charming on paper (or email) and then turned out to have absolutely no social skills. But, then again, I’m hopeless at hook-ups in clubs and pubs and things because the whole predatory nature of it kind of makes me generally want to hyperventilate in a corner and, specifically, the fact that you can’t actually talk to people, you just kind of grind your various pointy bits against each other until one of you finally gets up the courage to ask the other one to go home with you makes me feel like I’m breaking out in hives. Well, it would do, if I actually knew what hives were. Look, its just not good, ok?
SO, anyway, the point is that speed-dating seemed to be the perfect scenario for a person like me to meet new people. This particular speed-dating night was for charity, so it was also for a good cause. My very good friend was also going, so even if it was awful, I would at least have someone to laugh about it afterwards. Plus, it amused me to tell people I had 25 dates on Valentine’s Day. And, as Jessa might say to me if I was also a character on ‘Girls’, ‘Do it for the stories, Jenny’. So, I did it for the stories, and also for the fun, and maybe for the charity (I want to say bowel cancer?) and, yes, ok, also probably just a little bit for the potential romance and the loved-upness and the irritatingly shaped candy boxes. Just a little bit.
After some ‘dutch courage’ cocktails, myself, my friend, and her friends, all headed off to the bar the event was being held in. The combination of nerves, excitement and, well, alcohol, made us fairly merry by the time we got there. After some free shots, the girls were settled into their seats and the guys found their first date. Each date lasted 3 minutes, with 15 seconds for the guys to get in between each table. On our sheet of paper, we wrote down the numbers of anyone we fancied and we were emailed at a later date to let us know if anyone that we had fancied, fancied us. All fairly standard for a speed-dating night.
The evening itself was quite enjoyable. 3 minutes was enough time to have a fun little chat without things getting too awkward. I found most of the men pretty lovely, even if they were mainly in finance and banking and accounting (most of them worked with the guy who organised it). That being said, there wasn’t anyone that I actually felt majorly excited about. They were just all nice boys, all of whom I would have been happy to chat with some more. And, for that reason, I ended up putting down quite a few numbers. More than I expected to, quite frankly.
My friend and I headed home, taking a strange walking detour through bits of slightly-scary looking East London (‘nothing bad has ever happened to anyone ever in East London’ my friend assured me), where we found dragon statues and Chaucer’s house. I was in a strangely ebullient mood – I think it was a combination of meeting new people (I do like talking to people), getting dressed up, going out with friends and doing something out of the ordinary. I didn’t particularly care if any of the men got back in contact with me, I thought, I’d just enjoyed meeting them.
And, if that were the end of the story, all would be well. But, of course, the whole point of the evening was to find out whether or not the men wanted to get back in contact with me. On Sunday, my friend (who is probably going to be grumpy with me including her in this post, but she’s kind of integral to the story) called me at work to let me know that the ‘results were out’! (To be fair, she called for a variety of reasons, but they are not important to this story, so I’m not mentioning them. But, let it be known that she – and I – were not so preoccupied with finding out the results that she had to call me at work the minute they were available. I mean, it wasn’t the HSC and my UAI. Not that I was preoccupied about that… Well, ok, maybe a little, but, it was high school and it seemed important at the time and… GETTING OFF TRACK). My friend had 2 matches, which she was a bit disappointed by, but she then said that the guy organising the event had let her know that 15 people had fancied her, so that made her feel better. 15, I thought, that’s a decent number. I probably got something similar. After all, the conversations I had were nice and interesting and surely that means that there was something there on both sides. Surely that meant that the men involved in these conversations were at least a little bit interested. Surely they weren’t all just being polite and waiting for the bell to ring. I put down something like 12 guys, so hopefully there would be a good match rate. Though, if I was completely honest with myself, I was more interested in seeing how many guys were interested in me than I was in finding out who I had actually been matched with. I know, I know, I’m a terrible human being, but at least I’m honest. Go ahead and hate me.
So, I rushed home, eager to open my email. Well, all I can say is, pride cometh before the fall. After all my effort in getting dressed that day, doing my make-up, fixing my hair, making myself feel good, blah, blah, blah… I had one match and only four guys fancied me. Four! You have to admit that is a kick in the guts. Thank you very much, modern dating world. Though, I suppose it does explain a few things about my appalling romantic life over the past two years. If a friend of mine goes into a room of 25 men and 15 of them fancy her, and I go into the same room of 25 men and only 4 fancy me, well, can we be surprised that she is constantly getting into romantic entanglements whilst I just get to comment icily from the sidelines? Its all about the numbers people. That’s what the modern world has given us: Numbers. Statistics. Cold, hard facts that scientifically prove I am not attractive to a large majority of the population (a good 85% if my calculations are correct). Its like being back in high school again and worrying about how popular you are – well, that is, if high schools regularly ran popularity contests and then emailed you the results (actually… they DO do that in America, don’t they? That’s essentially what Homecoming Queen is, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what my reading of terrible ’90s American teen movies suggests. That is screwed up, man).
Now don’t all start trying to make me feel better by pointing out that I didn’t actually really like any of those men (to which I reply: neither did my friend! In fact, she liked many less than I did!) or that I did get one match and I should probably forget the other number and contact him (to which I reply: I’m almost certain I wasn’t interested in that guy – I think I wrote his number down by accident) or that there are ‘plenty of other fish in the sea!’ (to which I reply: in my case, at least, the statistics suggest otherwise) or that its not important about how many other people like me, its just about finding that one special person that I like and who likes me back (to which I reply: *vomit*). No, no. I am quite happy existing in my late-90s teenage nightmare; imagining myself as a Jennifer Love Hewitt/Katie Holmes-esque ingenue dressed in a matchy-matchy lycra midriff top and mini-skirt, chunky shoes and choker necklace, bawling my eyes out on the edge of my Dawson’s Party of Five bed after the ‘Made for Each Other’ themed school dance. I refuse to be cheered out of this foul mood. I’m off to get myself a cat. Except that my house already has a cat and I can’t actually afford to feed one.
God, I can’t even get that right.
What a fanta-bulous Valentine’s Day.