Page 91 of It's Not PMS, It's You

Until then, my name was Reth.

I squeezed through the men at the bar, grabbed a Heineken from the bartender, and waded back through the sea of testosterone, noticing that there were easily ten to twelve sets of eyes watching me as I made my way to my assigned table.

Could they be anymore obvious? What a bunch of horn dogs.

I sat and took a swig of my beer, waiting.

Lively Latin music was playing, and I couldn’t help tapping my toes to the beat, waiting for the event to start.

A man grabbed a microphone from the sound booth and walked to the center of the dance floor, smiling. “Welcome to our speed dating event this evening. Are you happy?”

Cheers and applause filled the bar.

Oh, joy. I’m ecstatic.

Okay, maybe I needed to change my attitude because I paid a lot of money for this event. I didn’t want to come off as a snobby bitch who thought she was too good to be there because we were all in the same boat.

We were all looking for love.

“We’re glad you could make it!” the man continued. “Odds are, you are going to meet someone tonight. Will they be your soulmate? Only time will tell. Just a few quick rules. You get three minutes per date. When you hear the bell, your date is over and then the men will move to their right to start a new date at the next table. Mark your scorecards in between dates, so we know if you would like to see that person again. We’ll send you an email tomorrow with contact details of the other person, if you both expressed the same interest. You’re all business professionals here.Do nottalk about your jobs. Talk about your interests outside of work, your hobbies, favorite foods, places you’d like to travel to, you get the idea. No business talk, got it?”

“Got it,” everyone answered together.

“Are you ready? Let’s do this! Your first date starts now!” He smiled and rang the bell.

I could see my first date approaching me and my BS detector was already pegging in the red.

It was the way he walked.

Was he going for a swagger like Mick Jagger or a drunk pimp limp? It was kind of a mix of the two. Or maybe he had an injured leg or a bad case of hemorrhoids.

No, that wasn’t it.

Now, I could see it plain and clear.

His ego was showing.

The man was full of himself.

Not a good first impression.

I eyed his name tag.

Julian.

You don’t see that name too often.

Please impress me, Julian. You’re not off to a good start.

Julian took a seat, leaned back in the chair with his legs spread wide, like he was trying to air out his junk. He glanced at my name tag. “Interesting name. How do pronounce that? Wreath? Like a Christmas wreath? Or is that Reth like Seth Meyers?”

“It’s Ruth, actually. It’s a typo.”

“Ah, I get it. Well, tell me something good, Reth.”

“Pardon me?”

Was he not listening? I looked around, wondering if this was a joke. This guy was supposed to be a business professional. He didn’t exhibit any type of behavior to suggest he knew a thing about business or sitting etiquette, for that matter.