Wednesday night’s speed dating event was definitely an experience. Here’s how the entire thing came to be and how it all went down.

• Amber and I half-jokingly discuss speed dating for the entire length of our friendship, but never pull the trigger.
• A Groupon appears in our inboxes several weeks ago offering a wild night of speed dating for a measly $18. We no longer have any excuses.
• We pick an event date from the company’s website and become slightly worried when we see “WOMEN: SOLD OUT” for pretty much every listing. It is apparent men prefer the traditional way of dating: picking up a girl at a bar and maybe texting her two weeks later for a drink.
• We sift through the FAQs on the site and learn there will be MAKEOVERS given to ladies who arrive 30 minutes prior. We immediately decide our time before the event will be spent making over our inhibitions with cocktails, and not with a “licensed beautician.”
• The day of the event, we receive an email from the speed dating company stating that a bunch of guys didn’t confirm their spots for that night and that it’s going to be a little uneven at the event. I email back: HOW UNEVEN? Turns out not so bad, and we are back on.
• At Amber’s apartment, we opt for red wine (which I drink through a straw because RED WINE MOUTH is not as sexy as it sounds) and we hail a cab at a perfect time that ensures we will arrive well-after the makeovers are complete. 
• The Chelsea night club where the event is being held is called Velour and the windows of the venue are completely tinted/mirrored/blacked-out strip club-style, making me momentarily uneasy.
• Upon entering, Amber and I both turn into giddy schoolgirls because neither one of us wants to go in first. Everyone glances up from their bar stools to check out the newest suckers and shit gets a little real.
• I said real, but I meant uncomfortable.
• We are given our score cards by the two “cheeky British hosts” (their words, not mine) and we grab champagne at the bar. We look for the nearest open seats that are nearest to no one and begin to assess the room.
• There are 9 women and 8 men. Amber turns to me and says, “Sara, these people look like they’re really here hoping to find love!” We instantly feel guilty about doing this for shits and giggles and vow to take this seriously.
• This lasts for 11 seconds. 
• The hosts make an announcement that the dating is about to begin, and to please take our seats. Ladies against the wall (how we like it) and dudes on the bar stools across from us. They are the ones moving from lady-to-lady and my feet are thankful.
• As we walk over to the conveyor belt of men, one of the hosts approaches Amber and me and says, “I know you ladies are good friends, so we ask that you don’t sit right next to each other. That way, guys can use the same lines and not have to worry about you two comparing notes!” WHAT? Okay, whatever.
• Let the games begin!
• First up is Sean (Jean?) Claude. He is a strapping young gent from Haiti who immediately pleads with me not to check the “never in a million years” box under his name on my score card. I want to say, “woah, tiger, slow down there!” but then I remember this is SPEED dating and it’s full-speed ahead.
• Next up is Peter. Glasses, curly hair, could take out a linebacker. Very nice guy. We talk about advertising and Mad Men and Texas. At this point, I am getting into the groove, but I can’t help observing what’s up next in my assembly line of men instead of focusing on him. This is a terrible habit of mine, as I have been known to read the last page of a book before I am through the first chapter.
• THEN! Then there is SHAWN. Shawn is the stereotypical nerdy, awkward, delicate  twerp completely incapable of having a two-sided adult conversation. Basically, he is Buster from Arrested Development. He tells me this is not his first time speed dating and that he keeps getting invited back for free. I ask nicely if this is because he hasn’t had much success and he just stares at me. (He is the one I blogged about during our conversation because it was so uncomfortable and he wasn’t making any effort.) He eventually tells me he works in a building where they cast Victoria Secret models, so I jokingly ask if he sits outside of his office waiting to get a peek. He says, “not really,” but sometimes he sees the models in the elevator and wants to say, “hey girl, get a sandwich.” He is my worst nightmare.
• The next 5 dudes are fairly legit and relatively easy to talk to — there is a Canadian, a guy wearing gigantic headphones around his neck, an engineer, a momma’s boy and another guy in (M)advertising — but no one I fancy.
• After the rounds end, we are asked to fill in our top five faves. There isn’t one that really stood out, so I choose — in no particular order — the five nicest guys I met. If any of those dudes put me on their top five, we get an email from the company that says so.
• We hand our cards over to the host, and I ask, “Is there an email you send out that says, ‘Hey there! Sorry no one picked you, but here’s a 15% off coupon toward your next event!”? She tells me no and I decide I won’t be disappointed if my inbox is empty at the end of the night (that is not a euphemism). 
• All in all, I believe it was a positive, comical, interesting, do-this-before-you-die experience. And let’s be honest, the Buster of the group? He might have been my worst nightmare, but he certainly gave me some great material.

I was literally on my last bullet point when I received an email saying sorry no one likes you, here’s a coupon! two of the guys I put on my list chose me too.

Here’s hoping they don’t Google me.