So I did it. Speed Dating. I’ve done this before, last summer when I met someone I actually dated for a couple of months, so I thought that even if I didn’t meet someone I’d date for an extended period of time, at least I’d meet one or two interesting and attractive prospects to go on real dates with.

Not so much.

Like last time I used New York Easy Dates (which for some reason has an ice skating, cosmo drinking hedgehog as its logo) and the theme was Single Professionals, whatever that means. For one guy it seemed to mean Professional Asshole while for another it was Professional Gum Chewer. And only now, after the fact, did I notice the age range: women 21-32, men 23-34. I’m actually 33 so I lied, who cares, but now I realize why a few of the guys I spoke with seemed so young. Cuz they were. Yikes.

Not that I have anything against younger guys, but like one, two, three years younger, not TEN for God’s sake. Not born-in-the-’80s. Not wasn’t-there-always-MTV? Not I-was-still-in-my-mother’s-womb-when-Reagan-was-elected-president. Anyway.

So 10 6-minute dates – well, nine for me because one guy wasn’t feeling well and bolted. You get a number and you sit at the corresponding table. You get a little sheet to jot down names and any notes and “Y” or “N.” Last time we handed in our sheets and the organizers entered everything and you checked your account the next morning. This time we took the sheets and were responsible for entering our “Y”’s, which makes more sense anyway. Plus I get to use my notes for this very piece. Here are just a few highlights:

The Professional Gum Chewer. The last thing I want to see is a bright green wad between your fillings while you ask me rapid fire run of the mill questions like (:::robot arms moving:::), What do you do? Where are you from? Have you done this before? The end of the conversation livened up when we started talking about the marathon, which I’d like to run and which he has.

Next was the Chinese Canadian (similar to Chinese American, like me, only, um, Canadian) neurologist. That’s right, a doctor. A Chinese doctor who was into me. Somewhere my mother is having an orgasm as I type this. Unfortunately, while again very nice, he just didn’t do it for me in the looks department.

Then there was the Asshole. The minutes are ticking, right? But he took his sweet old time writing on his sheet, folding it, putting it away. Hello? I asked him if he had ever done this before. His answer? No, and that the only reason he was there that night, gracing me with his presence, was that this was his friend’s idea and he was only doing it as a favor to said friend.

Then out of nowhere, he asked me how old I was. Now: I look young. I know this. So how old did he think I was? 40? And to top it all off, he was leaning way back in his chair as he spoke so that I could barely hear him and had to lean forward with a frigging hand cupped around my ear: “Anh? What’s that sonny?”

Next he asked me what nationality I was. Whatever. I told him. Turned out he was part Chinese, Thai, and French. Cool, right?

Me: “So do you speak any of those languages?”
Him: “No.”
Me: “Do your parents?”
Him: “Yeah, but I refuse to learn. I was born in America. I’m American.”

That’s open-minded of ya.

So I asked him if he’d been to China, Thailand, or France. Shnope, shnope, and shnope. Had he been anywhere? Yes, Japan. I pounced.

Me: “Oh, I was in Tokyo last week! Where were you in Japan?”
Him: “I don’t know.”
Me: “. . . .”
Me: “Were you in Tokyo?”
Him: “I don’t know.”
Me: “. . . .”
Me: “You don’t know what city you were?”
Him: “No, I went with a friend. I just got on the plane and went.”
Me: “. . . .”
Me: “But you were in Japan, right? You weren’t in, like, Ohio?”

I didn’t say that last part but God I wish I had.

After this the guys sorta blend together. There was Ready-with-a-Joke/Trying-Too-Hard Guy. There was Ask-No-Questions-But-Stare-Till-I-Do Guy. There were a pair of very nice – though, again, young – Korean American guys, and one guy who was a pilot for Rolling Stone magazine (cool job, though not cool enough for a Y).

So what’s the verdict? No winners I’m afraid. While I enjoyed some of my conversations and could imagine being friends with a few of the guys, I can’t imagine dating any of them beyond one, awkward, too-long date (too long, at least, compared to 6 minutes). More importantly, I can’t imagine making out with any of them in some bar somewhere (except for maybe the Asshole, which proves maybe it’s time for me to go to therapy).

But this doesn’t mean I won’t try speed dating again. Next time though I’ll go for a bit of an older age bracket, and will come prepared with some witty quips for any other Assholes I might encounter.