Zero to 60 without leaving the lot
This is a fast-paced world. People lose 20 pounds in 20 minutes. You can reach anyone, anywhere, any time. Even elections happen quicker -- nine weeks to a new governor.
So it felt like eternity when Match.com took nearly a week to send me my matches from a recent speed-dating event. The second the e-mail hit the inbox, though, messages from the men started to pour in.
Thank goodness, because my social life could use a jump-start. The last really notable date I had was in March, and that sparked what all too soon became a romantic flameout.
With everything else in the world spinning out of control, how fast is too fast when it comes to romance? A fortysomething friend went from zero to 90 in six months with his speed-dating match, getting married in July after meeting her in January. I’d like to get married -- someday. I’m not even sure I could handle a long-term boyfriend just yet.
Despite the possibilities and pitfalls on this accelerated path, I decided to move ahead and give my matches a chance. I recognized all but one by name. While I had nice exchanges with all of them -- two PhDs and a filmmaker -- I was most drawn to the mystery man. He sounded confident without being arrogant, funny without being childish and interested without being overly eager. Over the phone and in e-mail, there was mutual intrigue if not chemistry.
Finally, our D-day arrived. “Light” was the word for the evening. It was to be a refreshing change from my more adult dress-up dinner dates. This was jeans and sneakers all the way.
I arrived at the Castle, a miniature-golf hangout, in Sherman Oaks at 8 p.m. on the dot and sat on the trunk of my car. Eventually I’d see someone I recognized from the speed-date night, right? What if he was the Huey Lewis look-alike with the pompadour? Good thing I was wearing low-heeled shoes because he’d barely reached my shoulder. Or could it be the Melanie Griffith sound-alike? Too bad he didn’t look like Antonio Banderas.
A car tore into the parking lot, screeching to a halt. A man flew out of the car and raced into the arcade. That was probably my guy, I thought, but he moved too fast for me to register any recognition. When he returned to the parking lot, I walked over to meet him. A smile crept across my face. It was the conservative Buddhist comedian. Standing up, he was a bit shorter than my usual freakishly tall men of choice. But his easy manner and piercing eyes made up for the missing height. The two of us shared stories, laughs and a smoked mozzarella pasta salad he brought. Our banter shifted easily, from politics to entertainment. He wasn’t at all the Robin Williams nightmare I envisioned when we had our three-minute date weeks before.
It wasn’t all talk; there was some action. We darted from Skeeball to air hockey. The conservative Buddhist comedian had the advantage at Skeeball, racking up the tickets. (But he was very Zen about it.) My game was air hockey. Every once in a while, I tanked a shot to keep him engaged -- and in the game.
Even amid all the beeps, bings, flashes and sirens in the arcade, we focused on each other. It was the first time in a long while that I allowed myself to slow down enough to really connect and enjoy the moment, free of any expectations.
As the date came to an end, we strolled leisurely to my car hand in hand, bumping shoulders playfully. The whole evening had been very sweet, reminiscent of a post-football-game excursion from high school.
However, when we reached the car, all of that changed. Maybe it was the nostalgic nexus of dating and the arcade, but what started out as a tender goodnight kiss in seconds took on a life of its own. Suddenly, we were teenagers swept up in a hurricane of hormones. What is going on, I thought. Could speed-dating unintentionally lead to speed-mating? Possibly, but not this girl, not this night -- and not in this parking lot. After all, I’m still the same girl who made a guy wait three years before a first kiss.
When we finally sped off our separate ways, I wondered how -- or if -- we could recover. I guess the comedian also felt a little funny about how things ended. He fretted the next day in an e-mail: “I’m guilty of sending you misleading signals last night,” he wrote. “I’m a bit more of a playa than I like to admit, I guess.” I replied: “Does this mean you won’t be getting me the platinum two-carat, princess-cut diamond?”
After this speed-dating experience, I’m hitting the brakes and moving back into the dating slow lane. While falling in love would be grand, I think I’m better suited for crawling in love.
Michelle Maltais can be contacted at michelle.maltais@latimes.com.
