On a recent evening in Toronto, Jacque (pronounced Jackie) Walters, Extreme Fitness's hopped-up VP of group fitness, a super-ripped woman with a head covered in tiny braids, stood behind a metal table covered with handwritten name cards. Anchored to the table was a bouquet of balloons marking this as the meeting spot for participants in the latest dating trend known as fitness speed-dating. This was going down at Extreme Fitness's Bay and Bloor location; the gym had partnered with fastlife.ca, which specializes in speed dating. Participants had signed up for the class in advance.
Behind the table was the glassed-in room where the event was to occur. It had minimal equipment (hand weights, a set of boxing gloves, a lone stability ball), making it evident that while this was a gym, no sweating would transpire. Rather, the rules of engagement would see men and women rotating through stations while executing, for instance, jumping jacks and making chit-chat that might lead to mutual yeses on a scorecard.
This differs from traditional speed-dating, which takes place in a bar with good lighting and a drink. You chat with the guy for five or six minutes, a bell goes off and you jot down your conclusion, yes or no, determining whether or not you can overlook the facial twitch, say, or the unibrow -- i. e., will you allow this individual the courtesy of a few hours from your precious singleton existence that is surely hurtling toward childlessness and death, as your mother is quick to remind you, or will you dismiss him as just one more sop trying to get into your pants. Just askin'.
Having never speed dated, either traditionally or in a gym setting, I'd imagined there would be an air of mystery to the conceit. We would make enigmatic entrances: the guys streaming in through one door, the gals through another -- like at an orthodox synagogue. Eventually, we would convene for a night of flirting.
And it would go down in an environment laden with good old-fashioned duplicity and vice: dim lighting (for flawless skin), hooch (for conversation) and Spanx sausage casing (for ensuring your dress size goes from an eight to a six).
My fantasy fits neither version of speed dating. The peacocks among us who love the artifice of fashion will find gym dating disappointing. Unless you've been sleeping with someone for a very long time and love that person -- battery-acid morning breath and all -- a stranger's sweat isn't sexy, nor are flaming red nylon tearaway pants, which certainly can be forgiven, but only once the heart has been won.
Half an hour before the fitness/ dating event begins, the first candidate appears at the metal table. Wearing a uniform more suited to a job interview (ironed slacks, button-down collar), he talks to Jacque, then is never seen again. Ditto for Disappearing Dude No. 2, who has the pallor of luncheon meat and the slouch of the Springfield Nuclear Plant's Mr. Burns.
But hope arrives in the form or Ali, a cute kick-boxer, and baby-faced Jonathan, a former football player turned kinesiology student, who looks about 20 (turns out he's 23). Other men arrive, all pleasant, but when it comes to romance, if I can't imagine jumping in the sack or at the very least having a mind-shag of a conversation, I can't be bothered.
