How My Speed Date Got Stolen Onstage at a Live Comedy Dating Show (14/30)
I'm writing 30 posts in 30 days at Inkhaven. This is number 14.
In Barcelona, there is a comedy speed dating show called “Lolyamorous”. It’s live and offline, not TV.
The format is inspired by traditional speed dating. Random pairs of audience members go up on stage to have a two-minute date, followed by a few minutes of the hosts asking them questions, cracking jokes, and occasionally roasting them.
On stage there is a table between participants with two buckets containing questions. The buckets are labeled “deep” and “dirty”. At any point, a participant can pull a question from one of the buckets.
At the start of the show I swore to myself, if they called my name, I would not use those questions. You see, I am a writer, an artist, an independent thinker. I’m above using some random prompts written by god-knows-whom. My questions have to be artisanal and hand-crafted.
They do draw my name out out of a name bucket. I end up on stage with a cute blonde woman, about 30 years old. The date starts:
Hosts: “Why did you decide to come to a comedy speed dating show?”
Me: “My whole life is a joke.”
Her: “Is this your first time at a show like this?”
Me: “Yeah, what about you?”
Her: “It’s my third time.”
Me: “Seems like these shows aren’t the best way to fix your love life.”
Then I have no idea what to say — my mind just goes blank. She’s silent too. We sit in silence for 10 more seconds, and then she says, “So, should we grab a question from the bucket?”
I look at the buckets, recall the promise I made to myself, look back at her and say, “I’d rather just sit here in awkward silence.” And so we do, for the remaining a minute and a half.
I am a big proponent of cringe equanimity — going against the cringe field to reach inner alignment as cringe is a thief of internal freedom. There’s an expression: “Kill the part that cringes, not the part that’s cringe.” The part of me that would cringe in this situation has been dead for a long time (or, rather, absorbed). So being on stage didn’t feel particularly cringe. The questions from the hosts that followed were mostly cringe-related — so maybe some people in the audience were cringing.
A pretty boy in the audience stands up and says, “I could’ve done better.”
“Alright then, come try,” said the hosts.
To fuck with him, they swap the girl out for this guy. Suddenly he is on a “friendship date” with me.
The hosts go straight into asking us both questions. The guy was smooth and quick to think on his feet. I kept leaning into my role of the cringe connoisseur of the finest caliber. Even with zero cringe being on stage has still been an intense experience: the bright lights are as if you were abducted by aliens. And like with alien abductions, the memories get blurry at some point. I don’t remember the hosts’ questions, except for the final one:
“What’s the worst place for a first date?”
“This show,” I answer
“Thanks for playing.”
They swap me out for my original speed date. Now that woman is on stage in my chair on a date with the smooth guy. I go back to my seat. As I’m sitting down, the guy next to me says, “Dude, that was awesome. Really cool, thank you.” Thank you, dude.
Cringe is a cage the mind creates for itself. Never pass up an opportunity to explore its contours. There is a prize on the other side of it: if not the love of a woman, then the admiration of another straight man.
DANG
“Kill the part that cringes, not the part that’s cringe.”