ice cream

As if dating – and feeling pretty – in New York wasn’t hard enough already, there is something new to make you feel bad about yourself! Speed dating specifically for women under a size eight. Rachel Rabbit White writes about going to a “Skinny Mini” Speed Dating event where… everyone gets to feel awful, I guess. She says:

“Oh my god,” the woman running the event says to me — who, maybe it should be noted, is not a size small or whatever – “I almost forgot! I have to put your size on your nametags. What size do you wear?”

I tell her, nervously, that I am a four or sometimes a six and sometimes a two, although that’s in, like, really stretchy things.

She stops each of the women at the bar and does this, putting a number on their chests with red sharpie.

So they actually do reduce you to a number. In the most literal and terrible way. I had thought maybe it was a vague notion, but, no, it’s definitely an event where your worth as a person is directly tied to the size of shirts you fit into. Jesus Christ. You might wonder, do the men have to do anything similar? Nope:

“So I’ve been branded as you can see,” I say, pointing to my size on the nametag. “Because, this is my value here. But you didn’t have to meet any requirements to come here, so what value are you bringing to this exchange?”

He is still wearing a brown leather jacket. He frowns, accentuating a second chin.

I try it another way: “Why do you feel you should be with a woman who takes special care of her body?”

“Ah,” he says. “Because I take good care of my brain.”

They should all have to wear the IQ numbers on their chests if that’s the case.

In the interests of journalistic disclosure or whatever – Rachel Rabbit White is a friend (I was the journalist in her article who kept babbling about how people have a right to be off the record). Given this next portion of her essay, I am absolutely 100% only saying that to brag that I have a cool friend.

There was the guy I went home with who put his arm around where I sat on the sofa and said: “If you gained, like, a pound I would no longer be attracted to you.”


“Do you have anything to eat?” I asked.


I went into the kitchen, not bothering to find a lightswitch, and made sandwiches by the glow of the fridge. I stuffed them into my mouth, a paste of bread and cheese. I took a pint of ice cream from his freezer and left.

The only good thing to come out of this for anyone is a pint of free ice cream.

Picture via Getty