I first heard about speed-dating on the Oprah show eight years ago. At the time I thought it was a bit ridiculous– get to know someone in seven minutes or move on? Really? Trust Americans to make even courtship an efficient, pleasant assembly line. (Note to my US readers: don’t you hate it when furriners made mass generalizations like that about your culture? Although to be fair, you do ask me about the caste system and arranged marriages, so I guess I have some right to make absurd generalizations).
Then, about a year ago, when I graduated college, I realized that I had no life whatsoever (acknowledging this is the first step). I signed up for listservs and mailing lists for events in DC; aka the list for people who don’t have a life. I was hoping to acquire one.

I frequently saw the speed-dating announcements in these e-mails but dismissed them because why should I pay 15 bucks to meet a bunch of guys, I thought.

But this past week, a friend told me about a free speed dating event in a northern Virginia bar. As she was going along with a group of other friends, I reluctantly agreed. After all– it was free. And people I knew were going. And there might be free food and drinks involved.

Two things about this whole thing made me very nervous. First, I do not enjoy being the token source of color in a room, and in the one other NoVa bar I’d been to (an Irish one), I had served as just that.Even though I went to a university where 90 percent of my peers were white, I always get uncomfortable when I’m the only brown person in a room. Especially if  everyone else in the room are all of one type, i.e. all hicks or all preppy popped-collarish or whatever. Then it’s a special inside set.

The second thing that unnerved me is this: I live in fear of being that girl with the “nice personality.” Which as we all know is code for plain Jane. So I did whatever I could think of that would make me feel attractive: I wore a dress. I attempted to brush that unruly mop known as my hair. I wore my favorite pair of dangly earrings.

Now that I think about this, it was a ridiculous outfit choice for a bar. Dear Mishri: please don’t wear a dress to what you now know is a dive bar. It’s a bit like Jackie O going to a NASCAR event– the cultural incongruity can make the universe explode.

Anyway, at 6 p.m., I met one of my friends, A. We took the train in to Virginia, ate a light dinner, found out that her two other friends were bailing on us (!) and then headed in to the bar. The group, which should have been five people, had now shrunk down to three– me, A and P, the token guy and source of constant amusement for A and me.

Before we went in, we decided we needed a code word that meant exit/ escape. I suggested “hot dogs.”

Entering the bar was easy enough. Finding the actual speed dating room took a little longer, and I won’t deny I felt a little jittery as we walked in. Then I froze. There were TEN men in the room and four women. I was one of the four women. The men were mostly young-ish, nearly all were white. A couple of men were older. I felt my stomach lurching. I didn’t know what to expect, but this didn’t look good. I spun around and said to A and P: “Guys– you know what I love? I love hot dogs. Because hot dogs are SO great. Hot dogs are soooo delicious. Mmmm hot dogs.”

They laughed. And stayed put. Leaving now would be unfair to the hosts, seeing as how most of the women scheduled to attend, had bailed. I admired the sentiment, but I kept yammering on about those damn hot dogs because oh my god, hot dogs are so delicious.

We waited well over 20 minutes for the event to begin, in part because the hostess was scrambling (and failing) to get more women. So the ratio stood: four women and ten men.

What happened next? I’ll write about it tomorrow. Right now, I’m tired.