Cram 22 dates into two months and what do you get? Hopefully, the perfect guy.
It's Time!
On my 41st birthday, I opened my mailbox, anticipating over-the-hill gag cards. Instead, I pulled out a Dear Resident Singles letter and a brochure informing me that "It's never too early to think of investing in a burial plot." I suddenly felt poised between middle-aged spinsterhood and death.
Since my last relationship, I had become quite comfortable with my evening ensemble of sweatpants and slippers. Though I've never been married, a satisfying career and close relationships with my young niece and nephews had kept me content. But when friends my age started talking about PTA meetings and anniversary getaways, I realized it was time to step back into the dating game.
But where would I find available men in Manhattan? The bar scene had become saturated with 20-somethings and, thankfully, I'd exhausted my friends' supply of blind dates.
It was time to boldly go where I'd never gone before: organized dating services and singles' events. Giving myself a deadline of two months, I approached dating as if it were a job. I set up short-term goals (spending a pleasant evening chatting with an appealing man) and long-term goals (finding a person to share the rest of my life). I knew that the hardest part would be taking the first step.
HurryDate
HurryDate enticed me with its slogan: "Dating should be fun and in mass quantities." For $35, I'd get to meet 25 men in a single night (more than I'd spoken to in the past two years), chatting with each one for three minutes before moving on to the next. For a fast-talking New Yorker, this sounded ideal. Walking up the stairs in the restaurant, I noticed that a lot of the other singles around me looked terrified. I tried to think of this as the adult equivalent of musical chairs.
The company's vivacious hosts handed me a "Hello, my name is..." sticker, a score sheet, and a list of rules: "When your three minutes are up, we will blow a whistle to signal it's time to rotate. Circle 'yes' or 'no' on your score sheet to indicate if you are interested in meeting that person again. If both people check 'yes,' then they will receive the first name and e-mail address of their matched other half."
I zeroed in on an attractive man in his early 40s with wavy, dirty-blonde hair, sipping a drink and trying to look busy filling out his nametag. I slid into the seat across from him to do the same. He looked up and confided, "I can't believe I'm doing this." His green eyes and lopsided grin were disarming. Perusing the sample "icebreaker" questions strategically placed throughout the room, I asked, "Do you own anything tie-dyed?"
Screech! The whistle signaled that the first date had officially begun, and shocked us into temporary silence. Then we introduced ourselves. Chris was a consultant for a large marketing firm; I told him that I'm a freelance writer. We had barely segued into favorite movies when the whistle blew again.
I checked 'yes,' unsure if my attraction was based on sharing a nervous moment, or the knowledge that he hadn't owned anything tie-dyed since the early 70s.
After talking to 15 fairly attractive -- albeit homogeneous -- professional men about their jobs, their exes, and favorite sports, I moved on to Jeff, a video producer who seemed witty and interesting. By the end of the round, I had a raspy voice, a headache, and four names checked 'yes.'
When the HurryDate e-mail arrived. I felt as if I were back in high school, nervously wondering if my 'yes' men shared my interest. But my attention was briefly diverted to another message. It was from Chris, asking me out to dinner. With my rejection issues at bay, I opened the HurryDate e-mail to find that I'd been matched up with the three other guys as well.
Online Dating
I'd heard tales of people who had met their spouses in cyberspace, but I shrugged these off as urban legends. Besides, dating online seemed as appealing as kissing a floppy disk.
Then my friend Janine confided that she'd met a fabulous man via the Internet. "You should try it," she said. She was right.
A Google search turned up more online dating services than I would have imagined. I signed up with Match.com, which seemed to offer the most diverse age range and demographic mix. The site screens members' profiles, deleting e-mail addresses for anonymity.
All you need to do is answer some general questions and write a clever essay to attract men -- and "upload your photos," which nearly made me lose my nerve. I found three of my least-horrifying mug shots and clicked a few times. Three days later, 150 e-mails crowded my inbox (I would continue to receive 10-20 each week). My initial excitement waned once I realized that I had to sort through every sender's profile.
But after reading the first 30 e-mails, I became a pro. My right pinkie went directly to the delete button for all correspondence that began with, "Hey Babe, I think you're gorgeous." Ditto for those from married men, 20-somethings who "thought it would be cool to have an affair," and admitted bisexuals who were "very clean-cut, courteous, and careful."
Match.com also cross-references your profile with others that seem compatible. The site revealed a wide range of men whose profiles all sounded the same: They gave to charities, loved kids and dogs, and were looking for someone special. They were all into sports and went to Home Depot regularly. Men who said they appreciated my honesty, humor, and edginess, who keyed into a clever line and came back with an even funnier one, won out.
I ended up going out with 14 men from Match.com. For the most part, they were attractive, professional, and articulate. All but two asked if I wanted to see them again. I went on second and third dates with three of them. My favorite was Paolo, a dark and sexy 42-year-old with a great sense of humor, originally from Rome, who worked for an international marketing firm and had lived in Manhattan for two years. After we dated for six weeks, his company sent him back to Italy. But he continued to call twice a week and I started to learn some Italian.
The Matchmaker
When I hear the word "matchmaker," I think of Ethel, my grandmother's Fort Lauderdale neighbor. Whenever Ethel saw me, she'd tell me about a friend's son, grandson, or third-cousin-once-removed who'd be just perfect for me. Each time I politely demurred, she'd lean in and say, "Honey, you're not getting any younger, so stop being so picky."
But two Manhattan-based matchmakers, Janis Spindel and Samantha Daniels, piqued my curiosity. Both have a roster of successful professionals (age 25-60) who are eager to marry but lack the time to cultivate their own potential mates. The idea of someone else doing the legwork sounded pretty appealing.
Janis told me that her rates for women begin at $10,000 for six dates. This was one club I couldn't afford to join. "Let's meet," she said. "Sometimes I recruit women who I think will be right for my men." She also mentioned another option: For $50, I could receive her online newsletter for a year, which would inform me of her dinner parties and other gatherings. (It costs another $50-$150 to attend each event.)
I agreed to meet her at a coffee shop. Before our appointment, I must have changed my outfit five times. What if I didn't pass muster? The anticipation of meeting Janis was becoming more nerve-racking than a first date. "Are you Beth?" a tall, red-haired woman asked. Janis shook my hand and sized me up. "A four, right?" she said. "Good, my male clients like thin. You've also got great hair and incredible eyes." I relaxed.
Janis told me that most of her clients are Ivy Leaguers who earn six figures, come from stable family backgrounds, and own vacation homes.
"And you?" she asked.
"B.A. in English from Boston University...Parents divorced when I was twelve...I rent." She didn't seem overjoyed. But after I'd finished enumerating the key details of my life, she said: "Okay. You're smart, clever, honest, and in good shape. I think I can do something for you." I had landed an invite to one of her dinners, for 100 people, buffet-style.
The event reminded me of those awkward junior high parties where the boys stand on one side of the room and the girls on the other. I could almost feel my braces against my teeth.
Janis was working the room, making introductions. When she saw me, she asked, "Who do you find attractive?" I indicated a tall, handsome man with blue eyes. "Forget it," she said. "Doctor. Forty-five. Looking for someone in her early 30s. You need to be focusing on 'Over 50' or 'Divorced With Kids.'"
I noticed that most people had paired off. I guess Janis knows what she's doing; after all, she claims to have made 300 marriages and 500 monogamous relationships in the past eight years. Maybe the dinner-party scene just wasn't for me. I eased out the door and headed home.
Janis called the next day. "I've got the perfect guy for you." You had to admire her tenacity. "He's absolutely adorable, 45, divorced, one kid. An Argentinean cardiologist."
"Is his name Ari?" I asked.
"How did you know?"
"I met him on Match.com. Nice guy, intelligent, and yes, adorable. But the chemistry just wasn't there."
The Fixup
A 33-year-old ex-matrimonial lawyer, Samantha Daniels, says, "I look at two people, listen to what they want and ask myself if I can see them hanging out together for the next 30 to 40 years." Part of her service (packages start at $3,000) is to advise clients on whether their expectations are realistic. "The people I deal with want to get married, so I help them focus on what they're truly looking for. There is no such thing as perfection."
Samantha's process is like applying for a bank loan. By the end of a one-hour consultation, struck by Samantha's straightforward manner, I decided to give it a shot.
Two days later, she was telling me about Larry: "Good-looking, full head of graying hair, 48, tall, fun, well-traveled, in good shape, entrepreneur."
I met Larry at the Union Square W Hotel bar. Physically, he was everything that Samantha had described. He led us to our table, ordered drinks with the right amount of confidence, asked about my work, and seemed to be listening. I was impressed. Then he confided that he, too, was dating online.
"I don't like to send too many e-mails," he said. "I usually ask the women out pretty quickly. But there's this one woman. Very attractive photo. Widowed two years ago. We've e-mailed back and forth at least 20 times, but she still hasn't said 'yes' to going out with me."
"Check, please!" I thought. But instead I said: "She's probably still grieving. You're investing too much time in someone you have never met. Move on."
I thanked him for the drink and told him I had to leave.
I spoke to Samantha the next day. "He was good on paper," I reported. "I guess you couldn't have known that he'd be obsessed with a woman he'd never met."
"So how did you feel?" she asked.
"Like his therapist!"
Swing Dancing
After that flop, I was inspired to try out an activity that attracts singles but is less fraught with pressure. When my friend Val suggested we take a free dance lesson at Manhattan's Swing 46 club, I decided to give it a whirl. "If the men can lead, you can follow," she advised. I partnered with the instructor, got the basic steps down, and was raring to go. We heard that Fridays were best for singles, but it was slim pickings that night.
But at nearby club Cache, we hit the jackpot: The ratio of men to women was two to one. Within minutes, I was asked to dance. I forgot some of the steps, spun the wrong way, and tried to lead. Ginger Rogers I'm not, but no one seemed to mind. Then I spotted him -- tall, well-built, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. I noticed him smiling at me and summoned the courage to ask him to dance. He took my hand, kissing it, before leading me to the dance floor.
I felt like I'd just stepped into an old movie. Could this be my happy ending?
After four dances and a chat, I discovered that his name was Ron. An actor working on a screenplay, he told me that having to raise money for rent each month is stifling his art.
Maybe not my happily-ever-after, but I was grateful for the lessons he taught me: how to spin in the right direction, and that life is rife with opportunities if you're willing to take the initiative. Before I left Cache, I exchanged phone numbers with three men, and all of them actually called.
Time's Up -- For Now
At the end of the two months, I'd racked up four dates from HurryDate, 14 from Match.com, one from a matchmaker, and three from swing dancing. While many of the guys I met fell into the Mr. Maybe or Mr. Not At All categories, the experience got me back in the game.
As in any situation, the more you do something, the better you get at it. I've even started to strike up conversations with men in the supermarket and video store. Meanwhile, Paolo is back in New York and we have been seeing each other regularly. The other night, cuddled up on my couch, we ordered Chinese food, and rented Barefoot in the Park. We laughed at the same scenes. In his sexy Italian accent, he asked, "Are your serial dating days over?" I looked into his big brown eyes, watched a warm smile spread across his face, and secretly hoped that I would never have to go on another date.