Perhaps because I was preparing for not one first date but eight, a switch turned on inside me when I was getting ready to go out that Saturday night. I hadn't been aware of this switch, but if properly labeled it would say something like "all-the-creepy-man-snagging-advice-it-turns-out-you've-stored-up-over-the-years: ON/OFF". The switch had rusted over a bit, but when turned on, all sorts of thoughts gushed forth, with citations ranging from Seventeen magazine to a British teevee show to my Freshman year roommate: "trace his face with your eyes"... "necklaces draw attention to your chest"... "make sure to accentuate your best features"... "it's hard to respect a girl who's too trashed to remember where she lives." You get the idea.

While I was getting ready to go out speed dating, I had fun imagining how quickly I could turn a six-minute interaction into a total nightmare. I tried rehearsing these scenarios with my friend on the car ride to the bar, having gained that delicious type of permission that comes only from being in unknown territory that doesn't really mean all that much to you: permission to be anything I wanted. She wasn't as amused as I was.

When we got to the bar, it was immediately clear that we had not signed up for a normal evening but instead for a weird party game. There was a handful of us, all there for the same reason. The bar counter was filled. A few women were chattering together, and the men were transfixed by the baseball game on TV. We were all pretending to have come here for any other reason. Our postures and behavior said: "I'm a regular here." "Oh, I've just heard such good things about this underground, dimly lit bar whose name I can't quite pronounce with overdone twirling modern art protruding from the wall. I can already see why it gets all the hype." "Oh, I'm just meeting someone here." Yes, indeed you are! Eight someones, in fact.

If the words "Meet that special someone" had crossed my mind ahead of time in connection to this activity, I never would have hopped on board so unreservedly. But it wasn't until midway through Round 1 that I realized just how earnestly some of these men were taking this evening. "What are you looking for in a relationship?" "Do you want to have children?" Questions like these seemed reasonable in the context of the situation, and entirely unreasonable in the context of any other normal six-minute interaction. Or even any normal six-hour first date, in my book.

Speaking of my book, I started to realize just how strict it was, as the night tripped and stumbled forward, a little drunk on its vodka gimlet. My six-minute men were quick to pick up on my pickiness. Maybe even quicker than I was. "Oh, you're going to hate what I'm reading for fun." I got that sentiment more than once. And I caught myself making strange adjustments. "Oh, it's okay that Kevin only reads Dr. Phil books." Okay for what? I was falling into some sort of trap, the kind that has you thinking everyone finds someone, and for all you know he's right here in this room.

The bartenders, although in some sense only borrowed for the event, seemed strangely invested in our evening. When I asked one of them where the bathroom was, she directed me there with a zealousness that reminded me of the parent-host at a middle school co-ed party, hoping that everyone has what they need to have a good time, tuned into whether or not the boys and girls are mingling peacefully. In some ways I felt overly-taken care of. Really, the evening was choreographed for people who are setting foot outside their bachelor pads for the first time in ten years. The e-mails I got immediately after the event were similarly coddling, acting as an intermediary between me and my suitors. "You've gotten a message from Jimmy! What are you going to do next!" (Followed by a list of possible actions: send a message back, see if he's online to chat...). Really, I was back in a middle school scenario. The dating service was acting as the girl sitting between us in math class, passing our nervous notes back and forth for us, pushing us towards each other encouragingly.

My interactions ranged from the surprisingly comfortable to the watch-checking-every-few-seconds awkward. I met Dan, fifty years old and a regular at "these types of events." I accidentally became way too inquisitive about his twenty-five year old son. My cover was blown. Jimmy, a hockey coach, and I giggled about the weirdness of the evening and his candidness quickly moved him to number one on my list (yes, they actually had us rank ordering each other on a little worksheet). I cashed in on some unexpected perks of the evening: the business card to Marty's used car business, a few movie plugs, a few restaurant recommendations. This seemed like pleasant small talk at first, but with the increasing regularity of such recommendations, I got the sense that the men were trying to prove that they know how to show a girl a good time. I got barraged with the question, "What do you like to do for fun?" And I felt strangely put on the spot, like now was my chance to demonstrate my fun-loving spirit. I was forced into a sort of verbal personal ad: saying what I like to do in my spare time, along with all those long walks on the beach. Everything I said I like to do seemed to imply an empty spot next to me, waiting to be filled. I found myself stretching the truth, talking like I compulsively go out dancing and beating strangers at pool when really I spend most Friday nights curled up on the couch. I sounded like I was fishing, and I was only answering the questions. I started to feel trapped.

Leaving the event and entering the fresh air, time no longer divided into six-minute chunks, I felt less amused and a little bit closer to depressed. I had gone hoping to accept speed dating as an unusual but reasonable way to meet people, but instead I had found it alien and alienating. First of all, it felt artificial. I should've expected as much: whenever there is a lady with a microphone, ringing a bell every few minutes, urging the men to move to their next seat, and reminding the ladies to take notes about who they just met, you should know that your evening will not exactly feel "organic". But even beyond that: it hadn't felt like fun; it had felt like business. I had approached it playfully and then started to feel mid-evening that the group's brand of fragile hope was nothing to play with.

I would like to think that as adults we have outgrown the need for eager-to-help intermediaries that actually make everything weirder than it has to be. But some people can only deal with their awkwardness by drowning it in an external supply of further awkwardness that both distracts and protects. I for one can happily present my awkwardness to the world just fine on my own, thank you. This service only feeds into its clients' feelings of insecurity and alienation. This is either self-defeating or self-perpetuating of it, depending on how much of a cynic you want to be. If you don't appreciate a meddling third party that, with a spirit of generosity and too many exclamation points, tries to remove you one step further from the world as a way to compensate for your feelings of isolation, then speed dating is a phenomenon to avoid.

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