Is 3 Minutes Enough

For a quickie, perhaps… but for a date? Now that's a matter of opinion. Somewhere in the fog of the last few years it seems that New Yorkers lost the time for dating, sometime around when lunch hour became synonymous with the time it takes to order out for delivery. The 3 minute date phenomena delivers the thrill of dating, the convenience of no strings attached meetings (albeit few of the ahem… benefits), and the satisfaction of knowing you're going to meet lots of people in less time than it takes to order a holiday eggnog latte at Starbucks.

This is where I'd normally laugh—3 minutes, you've got to be kidding. Running sprints was my idea of torture in high school, doing just that in a bar while trying to impress a new someone at the same time… um, no. Getting past hello in 3 minutes is uncivilized. Going from hello to intelligent conversation to goodbye in that time seems grotesque, like your first quickie in the library. So, when I lost a bet to my friend and the penalty was accompanying her on a hurry date, the eternal pacifist prepared for war.

Her philosophy was that we needed to practice dating, that dating is like a muscle that you train and hone into physical perfection. I couldn't agree more, however, my idea of honing my dating muscle has always been centered on the [regrettably] narrow you call, I'll show, you buy model. I'm an old fashioned kind of gal with a twist, I like to be properly wined and dined and then I'll show you the town; parting with hard-earned cash for the privilege of attending what I saw as a "human" tasting in lieu of a more appropriate wine tasting, just didn't sit well especially as jug wine would be holding my hand instead of a nice St. Emilion.

Admittedly the questionnaire was fun, the anticipation a little nerve wracking (yes, I am a closet romantic), and then there was the event. I used to wonder how my fish felt having the world looking in with nowhere to hide. I no longer wonder. In fact, I moved my fish to a more private enclave—that evening. Never in my life have I felt so conspicuous. Seated in the roped-off section of a popular bar during happy hour with a perky whistle-blowing Nazi keeping three minute time, two options came to mind: a) committing seppuku with my "date's" pocket protector; b) finally adopting Maxim's character-for-a-night ideas. Unfortunately escape was not an option—my friend has the spare key to my apartment.

Slight note of caution—if ever you attend a 3 minute dating event with a friend where you will be dating the exact same people for the same 3 minutes and it is obvious that you are there together please warn your friend that you will be assuming alternate personalities. All it took was a raised eyebrow on her part and my brilliant alibi was smashed—undercover cop, heiress to the Starbucks fortune, CIA operative, budding actress, chef…. Needless to say, I only received anonymous e-mail "call backs" from the three I "dated" after my friend, looks like my acting career is going for bust but surprisingly my St. Emilion dating success has perked up remarkably. So perhaps 3 minute dates actually did what 3 minute abs do for my waistline.