Even when you’re J. Lo, love does not come easily. Nor does love move at the velocity of a bounced check, Paris Hilton spam or the shake-it-like-a-Polaroid-pitcha booty of the aforementioned Ms. Lopez. (Actually, there are recorded incidents of love moving faster than all that, but that involved tequila, a hot tub and lots of Crisco. Not that I’m speaking from experience or anything, mind you.)

As civilized and reasonably well-educated human beings, you’d think we would know better. After all, there’s a huge base of empirical and statistical evidence on the subject of fast infatuation versus love and commitment. We are already fully aware of the challenges of romance and the unreal expectations associated with finding a life partner and soul mate — someone you want to see in bed the next morning, always and forever(!). The notion of finding such a love within a condensed time span of, say, the painful 98 minutes it took to watch “Gigli,” seems absolutely absurd.

So compromise sets in and you begin to find comfort in the notion that you can have fully satisfying relationships without the bells and whistles, drama and swooning rapture that Hollywood has spoon-fed generations for years. If you’re like me, then the most intimate and expressive display of affection between your parents involved one parent picking the earwax out of the other’s head. And honestly, that is kind of sweet in a totally gross-your-non-Korean-friends-out kind of way.

If you’ve endured bad dates, suffered dreadful breakups or taken out a restraining order, the notion of an arranged marriage sounds pretty good (don’t tell my dad I said that).

The single life begins to erode your self-esteem, especially during major holidays or family events when you eschew your married friends because they’ve become far too smug. And even if they aren’t smug, you still don’t want to talk to them because you want to hate them. After all, they’ve completed the trek to relationship-land while you’re still trying to figure out how to unfold the map.

Last month I asked for your good wishes with my impending speed dating adventure. Gaining more and more main street cred, speed dating is a hosted event where 20 to 50 singles meet in three-to-five minute increments for micro-dates held in a safe, well-lit and somewhat chaperoned environment.

Even though yours truly had gone on three other dates during the week previous to the event, I was quite nervous. I tend to spill water, drop napkins and accidentally fling appetizers across the room while on a single date. How would I react to 20 blind dates? In the same room? What if I saw someone I’d kissed or dissed before? What if all the girls were way better micro-dates than me? What if I farted and was forever known as the speed-dating farter? What if…?

I arrived at the event with little more than a pocketful of skepticism and a teaspoon of terror. (That and my perfect poison-red lipstick that enticed Marco the bartender to pour me free scotches all evening.) One of my gal pals came along to play wing girl for the evening. Since she already had a boyfriend who could be a CK underwear model, her perspective of the evening was much like her attitude toward D&D gaming: “What are you going to wear? I think I want to be a meteorologist!”

That night, I found out the truth about speed dating: it’s exhausting to remain in flirt-vibe “on” mode while having to reintroduce yourself to 20 folks in succession. In the end, you can only maintain that fresh sparkly conversation for the first five to eight dates, and then the remaining micro-dates get sloppy seconds in terms of conversational liveliness. It’s also a mood killer when you’re trying to throw out some flow, only to have it interrupted by a power-tripping Love Gestapo armed with a stopwatch and bullhorn.

Most everyone I met that night was polite, nice and not terribly desperate smelling. If anything, they seemed to be great people to see punk bands with and share good times with, but there wasn’t anyone in particular that I’d want to suck face with (I mean, without the tequila, hot tub or Crisco). I’d still recommend it for those who are so inclined, though I doubt I’ll delve into that scene again anytime soon. After all, I think I still have time to take things the Supremes way — “You Can’t Hurry Love.” Beats J. Lo any day.