If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve wondered what it’s like to chase a story. Maybe you imagine hard-boiled journalists dashing through rain-slick streets, shouting “Stop the presses!” into an old rotary phone. Or perhaps you picture Carrie Bradshaw reclined on her perfectly unmade bed, typing with one perfectly manicured hand and sipping a Cosmopolitan with the other. Let me be clear: neither of these is remotely accurate. At least not in my world.

Chasing a story isn’t glamorous. It’s late nights, lukewarm coffee, and occasionally, mildly illegal favors. Case in point? The weirdest, wildest thing I’ve ever done in the name of getting a story: sneaking into a speed-dating event disguised as a 42-year-old divorcee named “Karen.”

Let me explain.

When Curiosity Gets You Carded

My editor, bless her chaotic soul, had assigned me a piece on unconventional ways to meet people in the digital age—think beyond dating apps and algorithms. Nashville being the eclectic city it is, she thought I might stumble across something offbeat. And I did—thanks to a dingy flyer taped to the bulletin board of a diner where I was attempting to bribe a source with banana pudding. It read: “Friday! Speed Dating for Singles Over 40. Find Your Match in 3 Minutes or Less.”

Now, I’m firmly in my 30s, and as much as I’ve been told I have an “old soul,” I’m also keenly aware my actual face wouldn’t buy me ten seconds at this event before someone called my bluff. But I knew I had to go. There’s a perverse kind of beauty in watching new romance bloom under fluorescent lighting while strangers shout fun facts about themselves across a folding table. I also had questions: Who decides if three minutes sparks something real? Did anyone still bring business cards? And could this really work for people looking for love outside the swipe-scroll-repeat cycle?

So, I did what any self-respecting writer-slash-agent-of-chaos would do: I decided to fake it.

Fake It ‘Til You’re Karen

My plan started with a wig. Because nothing says “I’ve got my life together” like cheap auburn curls with an aggressive side swoop. I borrowed a pair of glasses from my mom (whose prescription is just strong enough to give me a headache but not enough to send me careening into walls) and layered on enough foundation to make me look like a mannequin left out in the sun.

For wardrobe, I landed somewhere between “Recently Hired Local Realtor” and “Off-Duty PTA President.” A floral wrap dress from TJ Maxx and ballet flats later, I no longer looked like Savannah Ridge, Harried Writer—now I was Karen Hollis, Amateur Candle Maker and Dog Mom to Rufus.

Somehow, I convinced the event organizer I belonged there. I kept my backstory light—Karen was newly single after a “conscious uncoupling,” and Rufus was 13 pounds of unbridled sass—a rescue, naturally. Suffice to say, I committed.

The Romance Rodeo

Speed dating, as it turns out, is less like the rom-com montage you’d hope for and more like standing in line for Space Mountain: you’re excited at first, but the longer you’re there, the more you wonder if it’s worth the wait.

Each “date” lasted three minutes, broken up by a buzzer that was one scream away from a tornado siren. My opening partner was a man named Ed with a penchant for pontoon boats and an allergy to shellfish. Before I could ask why the latter detail was delivered with the same gravitas as a Shakespearean soliloquy, the buzzer went off.

Next came Dana, who told me cats were plotting our downfall and that we’d all be working for them soon. Sure, Dana.

While some conversations bordered on delightful (shout-out to Liam, who loves gardening and told me he once grew a 40-pound pumpkin), others felt like a slow march into madness. At one point, I found myself nodding politely as a man listed his credit card rewards points by category: “Dining and Entertainment cards give the best cashback—just so you know.”

But if you think I left empty-handed (and mildly concussed from all the personality whiplash), you’d be wrong. Somewhere between the candlelit tales of shellfish-induced trauma and Dana’s feline conspiracies, I realized why this event worked for the people who showed up: they weren’t afraid to try.

What “Karen” Taught Me About Dating

If speed dating taught me one thing (besides how to pronounce “pontoon” with sincerity), it’s that putting yourself out there isn’t about being perfect—it's about showing up. We’re all walking into this world with mismatched baggage, weird hobbies, and sometimes poorly Photoshopped wigs. The key to connection isn’t making your quirks smaller or more palatable; it’s letting someone see them, wig and all.

Here are my takeaways—both from speed dating and my time as a fictional 42-year-old divorcée:

  • Risk Embarrassment. It’s scary to put yourself out there, but no one worth your time will judge you for trying. If you make a fool of yourself (as I often do), dust yourself off and laugh about it later.

  • Get Out of Your Comfort Zone. Whether it's speed dating or volunteering at your local bookstore, you won’t meet new people by staying in your bubble. Be brave enough to say, “Sure, I’ll give it a shot.”

  • Embrace the Unscripted. The best moments in dating—hell, the best moments in life—are rarely planned. Lean into life’s curveballs (or, in my case, shellfish rants).

Back to Savannah

By the end of the night, Karen Hollis had survived eight three-minute dates, two lukewarm glasses of Chardonnay, and one enthusiastic debate about sushi etiquette. While I left with zero love interests (and a mild headache from those glasses), I’d gained something far more valuable: perspective.

The truth is, there’s no such thing as a “normal” way to meet someone. Whether you’re swiping through profiles or sitting across from someone who brings photos of their Maltipoo to a speed-dating event, what matters most is that you’re showing up, just as you are.

So be weird. Be brave. Be Karen, if you have to. Just don’t forget to take off the wig when you’re done.