Nobody Told Me Speed Dating Was 7-Minutes of Hell

Last week I made the bold, unhinged decision to attend a speed dating event in Haifa. I figured, why not? It was either that or spend another evening aggressively judging people on dating apps. Worst case scenario: I get some content for my blog. Best case scenario: I meet someone tall, dark, and emotionally available (I know, I crack myself up too).

The event was held in a dimly lit restaurant with candles on each table. At the entrance, I was handed a name tag, a pen, and a scorecard—Inside it smelled like overused cologne and desperation.

Round 1: Avi, 42, graduate student, offered unsolicited advice about mental health.

Round 2: Nadav, 38, brought a bad attitude. He sat there staring at me in complete silence, like it was totally normal. I tried having a conversation, but it didn’t go well.

Round 3: Tomer, 39, told me I reminded him of his ex-wife.

By round 4, I was sweating through my outfit. Eli looked promising. Cute, sweet, a little too enthusiastic about wild boars, but he didn’t mention ex-wives. So naturally, he didn’t pick me.

At the end of the night, we all submitted our scorecards and waited for our “matches” like we were on some kind of sad reality show. I matched with no one, and honestly? I felt relieved. I didn’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.

What did I learn?

Speed dating in Haifa felt like a social experiment designed by someone who hates happiness. But I got a free glass of wine, a new story for the blog, and the satisfaction of escaping without being enrolled in a second date.

So really, I’d call it a win.