By Gina Angostura
Columnist

They call it speed dating. I call it 56 Minutes in Hell. Or Seven Times Rejection. Or I Want My Two Hours Back.

So many names you could call it, and believe me, I did.

Previous articles • September 28, 2006 • September 14, 2006 • August 31, 2006 • August 17, 2006 • August 3, 2006 • July 20, 2006 • July 6, 2006 • June 22, 2006 • June 8, 2006 • May 25, 2006 • May 11, 2006 • April 27, 2006 • April 13, 2006 • March 30, 2006 • March 16, 2006 • March 2, 2006 • February 16, 2006 • February 2, 2006 • January 26, 2006 • January 19, 2006 • January 12, 2006 • January 5, 2006 • 2005 Archives

What is the world coming to when we think we can possibly meet our soulmate in eight minutes of conversation? And I use the term “conversation” lightly.

It seems like a great idea. Life is getting faster, and we’re getting more impatient. We can’t even wait four seconds for Google to search for the name of the cute guy who played the Mountie in “Due South” (Paul Gross) without swearing at our computers. So getting to meet a bunch of men at one event and make them sit there and talk to you seems brilliant.

And it is brilliant. In theory.

The people who ran the event I went to were great. They were professional. They wanted us to have the best time ever. Even if it killed us.

But there’s nothing like compressing all the worst things about blind dates into a two-hour block for a great way to spend a Monday night. The checking-each-other-out look. The too-intense leaning across the table, trying to pretend we’re so interested in what the other is saying. The little voice inside our head saying, “Are we done yet, are we done yet?”

Seven men and eight women showed up for this one. The eighth man mysteriously got an “emergency” phone call before we started. I’m not sure, but I think I saw him check out the room, then make a ringing noise out of the side of his mouth and talk into his phone in a low whisper. I knew I should have brought my cell phone with me. He got off easy.

The problem with an uneven number is that if the world outside the tavern were destroyed by a huge tidal wave from the Merrimack River, and we were the last people on Earth and had to repopulate the planet, someone would have been left out. Me, me, pick me!

Which, of course, is the whole idea behind speed dating ­ to see who will choose you. It’s like the 21st-century version of the slave auction block. I was surprised I wasn’t asked to show my teeth.

So, this is how it goes: The hostess/cheerleader/evil dictator sets the timer, says “go!” and the first guy comes to your table. The great idea I had for an opening question (Boxers, briefs, boxer briefs or commando?) got nary a smile, which left us talking about jobs, failed marriages and how hard it is to meet someone until the buzzer sounded, bringing temporary relief to the excruciating pain. Much like that little morphine pump after surgery. Or a kick in the knee to make you forget about your headache.

The men I met all seemed nice. And I did get a pretty good idea if I’d want to see them again. But it still seems a bit unfair to judge someone in that short a time period. On the other hand, if you hit it off with someone that quickly, maybe it would work out. You never know.

What I do know is I won’t be doing it again. Ever. I’d rather be tied to a chair and have my underarm hairs pulled out one by one with tweezers.

They gave out little goodie bags at the end, which was something, anyway. Except there was one missing. Mine. Pretty representative of the whole evening. You guys at the dating service owe me four Dove chocolates.

The Single Cynic alternates weeks with the Married Cynic.