Material Disaster

Earlier this week, I spotted an invitation to an “all-Ivy-alum speed dating” event in my inbox. Before I enrolled in this class, I would have shuddered and deleted the message unread. The regimented awkwardness, the efficient judgments and romantic bet-hedging, the third-party-administered rejection, a buzzer severing the one weak sprout of a possibly meaningful connection that had somehow managed to bud in such an inhibited environment, and, just to toss in another glowing-hot coal of despair, all this carried out amidst the faux-camaraderie of those still seeking validation from their admission to one of a tenuously connected group of schools, an achievement based entirely on some nice things they’d done back in high school - it would be traumatic to experience. But delicious to write about. Before I knew it, my new writer-ish self had RSVPed.

I used to view having a good story to tell as a consolation prize for an entertainingly crappy adventure I wish I’d avoided. But ever since I started writing, I’ve been on the hunt for good material, the more soul-wrenching the better, and I’m willing to subject myself to all sorts of humiliation to get my fix. I’d always ducked my company’s “work in customer service for a day” training, but now I sit impatiently on its waitlist and dream of fumbling an expletive-laced call from the world’s most irate consumer. Last quarter I took a driving lesson after a 5-year hiatus from the road. I hated the experience (as did several honking motorists), but I loved writing about it, precisely because it was so painful. This appetite for material has made me more adventurous and provides some comfort whenever an unwanted person or circumstance invades my life.

I was pondering the ethics of planting awkward pauses and other mood-killers into each of my speed dates. Then, as I was assuring myself that all this would come naturally, I heard back from the organizer. As with most things involving hypercompetitive yuppies and courtship, I was too late – the event was full. (Either a lot of people wanted to have an uncomfortable, depressing evening and write about it, or a lot of people thought this would be fun. At any rate, it’s weird.)

I felt devastated that I’d been turned down for something I didn’t really want to do in the first place but wanted to experience the misery of so that I might have fun writing about how awful it was. And suddenly, as I considered what a pathetic layer cake of negative emotions I’d just indulged in, I realized I still had something to write about.