Thanking the Shoes

At least once a year in high school a teacher would mention a chazal that says that if you’re walking through brambles you should take off your shoes. Pandemonium always ensues.
First someone raises her hand and points out that shoes are meant to protect feet, and taking them off kind of defeats the purpose. The teacher then explains that while feet can heal from cuts and scratches, shoes don’t. Therefore they should be protected.

“Yeah, but the shoe doesn’t hurt when it gets scratches, that’s why we wear them!” someone calls out.

“But the shoes will last longer if you don’t ruin them,” the teacher answers. “They’ll protect your feet longer.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s just crazy,” someone says. “If you keep your shoes in the closet they won’t get worn out either.”

“She’s not saying you can’t wear your shoes!” someone else argues. “Just that you shouldn’t beat them up on purpose.”

“Well I’d rather my shoes got beat up than my feet!”

“You’re just proving the point – that we have to treat things nicely!”

“Shoes?! I have to treat my shoes nicely?

“Hakaras hatov! How would you feel if everyone just walked all over you all day?”

“What about hakaras hatov to the floor? Or my socks? Or my feet? I walk on them too!”

“Well they have to – they’re your feet. The shoes are doing you a favor.”

“Oh yeah? I’d like to see them try going on strike!”

“Hold on hold on everyone – shoes don’t have feelings. My feet do.”

“Not true – shoes also have soles!”

At which point the teacher calls the class to order and moves on, usually without explaining further.

The point, if there is one, is that just because someone or something is doing its job, or even getting compensated for it, doesn’t mean he, she, or it doesn’t need appreciation or even a bit of coddling now and then. This is something Industrial Psychologists try to pound into the heads of Type-A CEOs, and it is the reason for Mothers’ Day.

So who is the unappreciated workhorse of the shidduch system? As tempting as it is to yell “Me!” that would be a lie. I mostly sit back and wait for everyone else to do the heavy lifting. And the heavy lifting is done by parents and shadchanim, for the most part. Yes, my parents have to do it if they want to get rid of me, and yes, their methods sometimes pinch my toes and blister my heels, but here’s a moment to appreciate the difficulty of making cold calls, advertising to strangers, and worrying that I’m going to do something incredibly stupid like bungee jump off the Empire State Building. So a moment of silence in appreciation:

 

 

 

 

As for shadchanim, well, they really are underappreciated there. All my shadchan experiences have been neutral to mediocre, but I’m not sure it’s their fault and not sure that there’s any way to improve the interaction. Let’s face it: crash coursing a stranger about you is never going to be pleasant. But I’ve heard that some are sweet and many are successful, so if you have a heartwarming shadchan story, feel free to share. Otherwise, here are another few blank lines for the hardworking folk:

 

 

 

 

Roaming Shadchan

Regarding the secular shadchan thing, thank you DB for this link to an article about a matchmaker who boasts a success rate of 800 marriages in 15 years.  Do you think we could entice her into the frum market?

Shadchanim Like Degrees… in India

Just continuing the theme of other people who use shadchanim, because it’s always nice to know we’re not the only people using the system…

I was reading Nerds, a book examining the phenomenon of “nerdiness” in the USA. One of the central theses of the book is that the lamentable American mediocrity in everything academic stems from the fact that students who do well in math and science are mocked and alienated by their peers. To make his point, the author went searching for an equivalent of the “nerd” or “geek” in the societies producing today’s foremost scientific minds. The response from Japan was basically, “Make fun of someone who excels in school? Is that some kind of joke?” The correspondent from India said that in that country wisdom is revered, and the knowledgeable accorded a higher status. To make his point, the correspondent explained that Indians who return from the USA with M.D.s after their names or degrees in biomolecular science gets a heroes welcome, complete with strewn flowers and swooning girls. Or close enough. To be more factual, the girls in question are the most eligible bachelorettes in town, and they’re heaved at the returned scientist, doctor, or engineer by the local equivalent of a shadchan. So when an Indian nerd comes to the USA to study engineering, he’s in search of wisdom, and also a good shidduch. And when he returns to India, every mother bustles over to his mother to make sure he knows about her daughter. I wondered if the same applied in reverse. If an Indian woman gets a medical degree, is it good for shidduchim? Do the India-bound men rush to court her? Nerds didn’t address this issue, as it was primarily concern with nerds in the USA, and not in India. (Is being nerdy good for shidduchim in the USA? Apparently it depends where you live.)

I’m wondering who else still uses shadchanim. Matchmaking was once pretty standard across the board, but Western culture started letting people meet socially more than 200 years ago. Eastern and oriental was slower to catch up, but they’re trying hard. I’m wondering: in rural China or any of those Southeast Asian countries, do they still matchmake? I think we can count on many of our Arab cousins to hold up the tradition with us. But what about elsewhere? Is there any overarching practice in Latin America or Africa? Southeastern Europe? Native American cultures?

Shadchanim Shadchanim Everywhere…

I was once given a copy of Avenue magazine. Avenue is not the sort of magazine you find at the average newsstand between Cosmopolitan and GQ. It is an expensive magazine printed on stock so thick you can use a page to prop open a window, and so glossy you can use them to shave instead, in the event that it’s chilly out. If you don’t shave, you can do your hair or pop a pimple. Anyway, you get the idea. The magazine is distributed free to the class of people who can actually afford it: namely, those who live on the Avenue (capital A). It’s really avenues (plural s), but somehow that doesn’t sound as exclusive. Though quite frankly, Park Avenue, Fifth Avenue, and Madison on the Upper East Side sound pretty exclusive to me. I mean, we’re talking neighborhoods where purchasing a square foot of real estate requires more cash than I spend in a month – and that’s in textbook-buying month. And these people buy more than a square foot, obviously.

Anyway, Avenue magazine is all about these people’s lives, and I was struck by how much it resembled mine. OK – so I wasn’t invited to the Metropolitan Museum of Art annual fundraising dinner, but I do go to dress-up affairs fairly often – I mean, you can’t wear sneakers to a Chinese auction. And while nobody is snapping my photo and naming the designer of my dress in the caption, they certainly are looking at what I wear – and probably wondering who designed it, so they can burn down his house.

There was an article written by two prep school graduates. They had the same dilemma all post-seminary girls suffer through: they wanted to do the Grand Tour of Europe, but their parents were worried about letting their daughters bum about Europe unaccompanied. Not like your average sem or prep-school grad is going to bum around in the traditional, hitchhiking sense of the phrase, but parents aren’t reasonable no matter what avenue you live on. Unlike the average sem grad, though, these young ladies solved the problem by finding a handsome male escort to protect them – and off they went with daddy’s plastic.

Anyway, I flipped past the culture, beauty, and fashion articles to the advertisements at the end. There are full-page ads all the way through, of course – Gucci and Prada can’t say it in a quarter page – but above a certain income level they don’t bother you with pesky adverts among the text, apparently. So quarter-page ads are relegated to the back, like where they put the screaming ads in PC World or Wired. But instead of “cheap monthly hosting!!!” the advertisements were for… matchmaking.

I guess it isn’t easy being rich and single. It’s hard to tell if someone really adores polo as much as you do, or if they’re just pretending because they’ve read your net worth in Forbes. I don’t envy them that at all. Then again, I have pretty similar issues in my own dating life, so I won’t waste too much sympathy.

But that wasn’t the only interesting part. The upper crust shadchanim advertise success rates, and one of them claimed 98%. I wanted to call her up immediately on my own behalf, but I don’t think she deals with the less lucrative frum market. But immediately one notices a disparity between being a shadchan for the wealthy and for the orthodox. One advertises for work; the other fends off the hordes. One has to present success statistics; the other can’t, because half his/her clients are stashed in the back of a filing cabinet, if at all. One promises the customer service you expect at a private appointment with Yves St Laurent; the other expects to receive, not give, the tender treatment. Then again, one probably does this for a living, while the other is hacking it for a hobby or because of perceived communal obligation.

Still, maybe I’d rather be rich after all. There’s something different, almost reverent, about the way we treat people with money. Money can’t buy escape from shadchanim, but it sure can make the experience more pleasant. At the very least, you can bet they won’t be asking that irritating, “So how will you support the family” question.

Just Busy

Just because some people seem concerned: all the recent serious posts were written in a single pensive evening, and I haven’t had time to write the lighter posts that were supposed to go in between, so fear not: Bad4 isn’t in the dumps. She’s just a drop preoccupied.

Why Single People Should Learn Sign Language

Ah, weddings. Don’t we all love weddings? I love friends’ weddings, anyway. Relatives weddings are another story. Not that I’m not happy for the couple and all that, but there’s always that double check on your appearance to make sure you’re not going to embarrass the nuclear family in the presence of the extended family. “Oh no you’re not wearing that little black suit. Wear the other little black suit.”

As a single person, it gets worse. Because not only do you have to worry about offending the family eyes, but there are also those other people who you must see, and while you’re at it, must impress. In other words: “Before you walk out the door let me see if you’re presentable because I hear there’s a shadchan at table 29, and table 32 is going to have the mother of someone who was mentioned as a potential match, and why aren’t you wearing a necklace?”

Because I never remember a blasted necklace. Last time I wore a necklace to a wedding, a friend fainted from the shock and they had to bring her around with water. Her makeup smeared, and I decided I wasn’t going to do that again—too much fallout. But seriously, I’m not trying to antagonize anyone. I forgot.

Anyway, I shrugged off the “shadchan at table 29 business” this wedding, because the shadchanim who were supposed to be at Blushing Bride’s vort never materialized. I went confidently and benecklaced.

I guess I underestimated how much my parents had cranked up the Marry Off Bad4 project. Or else it was the fact that my aunt, finally disposed of her own young old maid, decided to do something on behalf of my mother’s. So she actually debriefed the shadchan on table 29 and told the mother on 32 to look out for me.

Luckily, we arrived just in time for the chupah, so the only embarrassment I had to suffer was failing to recognize a great aunt I’d only met twice in my life 3 years ago. Question: when someone asks “Do you know who I am?” and you suspect you do but aren’t sure, is it better to hazard a guess and risk being wrong, or should you just say “no clue”?

Anyway, after the chupah I chatted up all my cousins for a polite amount of time, and then we went off to find the sinks. Naturally, it was on my way back in after washing that my mother caught my eye and started beckoning. I’m sure I made an incredible impression on the Woman in Black by just shaking my head and continuing to my table. But I came back a couple of minutes later, being a good and obedient daughter. They were positioned directly behind the band, which was playing at decibels to match the ritzyness of the wedding, which was considerable.

“YOU COULD HAVE CHOSEN A WORSE PLACE FOR THIS CONVERSATION,” I howled. “LIKE MAYBE IN FRONT OF THE BAND.”

My mother didn’t even notice that I was trying to communicate with her. But being used to raising her voice to command the attention of rioting children, she was better able to convey to me, “THIS IS MRS. MADEASHIDDUCH! SHE MADE SOMEONE OR ANOTHER’S SHIDDUCH! I WANT YOU TO MEET HER!”

I smile politely at Mrs. Madeashidduch, being otherwise struck dumb. Not because I was awed by the fact that she’d successfully matched two people up, or even that I wasn’t sure what to say next, but simply because when you know a person is only going to catch every third word that you say, you have to choose your words carefully. In the end, I said nothing, letting my mother shriek about how astoundingly wantable I was. (Which is why, naturally, she’s so eager to get rid of me.)

I finally escaped back to my table, but my mother finds me there; she hasn’t forgotten the shadchan at table 29. I sigh and follow her to table 29.

“SO WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR?” asks the table 29 shadchan.

“SOMEPLACE QUIET ENOUGH TO TALK!” I respond, lungs beginning to ache. She seems to agree, though, and we move off to the corner farthest from the band where we can talk at only 2/3 capacity.

“So what are you looking for?” she asks again.

These bands have got to get quieter. I’m willing to bet that most Orthodox Jews lose more hearing between the ages of 18 and 25 and 45 and 55 then at any other point in their lives, just from attending weddings. I was rather disturbed to find that I couldn’t hear myself bentch unless I shouted. I kept waiting, as I bellowed through Nodeh Lichah, for the music to stop abruptly and me to be left shouting into the silence like in that practical joke 5^th graders adore so much. I was also horrified by the ringing audible in my ears every time I stepped more than fifty feet away from the dance floor. But most awful is the way the music disrupts the brisk matchmaking business going on along the sidelines, as Women in Black discuss and talk to Girls in Black. Some consideration, please! We’re trying to get married—do you mind?

All this would be less of a problem if singles and shadchanim all knew Sign Language. We could all go deaf without knowing it, and still be able to ask and answer, “So, what are you looking for?”

If anyone knows how to sign “What are you looking for?” please let me know. And if there are signs for “earner, learner, learner-earner, earner-learner,” please let me know too. I’d like to collaborate on a YouTube video for the edification of the frum populace. With all the shidduch initiatives going on, I think this is one worth pursuing. Girls are there, shadchanim are there, why not bring them together in productive communication, instead of this screaming inefficiency? Post below if you would like to participate.

Zoom Zoom… Cough Cough

Five friends got engaged in a three week stretch, and I was left with a strange feeling. Is that what they call the “left behind” feeling? I guess so. It’s not like I feel like I’m doing highway speed during the Indy 500, though. I don’t feel… “left behind.” It’s more like watching everyone do something you can’t do too. Like watching a party go on, but being unable to join, or like having all your friends join a club, but being barred yourself. It’s like everyone’s been living another life that you didn’t know about.

It’s like when everyone at the table gets the joke except you; like when everyone’s discussing a book you never read or a movie you never saw. It’s like coming in to school one day and discovering everyone has a fancy new ten-brained yoyo except you, and you don’t even know where to get one. It seems everyone is either getting engaged or getting married, and I’m standing on the sidelines saying, “Hey wait, where can I get one of those?”

Suddenly five more friends are all excited about weddings and marking “first date” anniversaries on their calendar, and I’m feeling like you do when you walked in just after the presentation and don’t know what the discussion groups are going on about. Like finding out that all your friends are going to a camp you’ve never heard of. Like being the only one who didn’t get accepted to a seminary, or the only one to miss the chain call about the party. It’s just… a strange feeling.

Shidduch Musical, Song 2

Just to round off the week cheerfully…

Hope Scraps doesn’t mind if we lift her Hairspray adaptation for the Shidduch Musical – I think it’ll do for Act 2 quite nicely.

Soft Gloom

There’s a soft sadness that accompanies the end to any dating streak. Even if you knew it wouldn’t work, even if you broke it off yourself, it’s the end of a hope that leaves you in a slump.

Everything always sounds so great on paper. You felt sure that this just might be the one. Your imagination was going at full speed as you checked yourself in the mirror one last time. Everything seemed right; nothing could possibly come up and impede. Then you go out. You discover that it’s the blanks between the lines that speak the loudest. You begin to wonder how anyone can ever pick a true soul-mate out from among the masses, and if you ever will. You glumly surf the ‘net late into the night with glazed eyes, gazing moodily at the ecstatic faces in the “Engagements” section of OnlySimchas and skimming the backlog of BadforShidduchim, trying to find something to cheer you up. Nothing does, so you slowly drag yourself off to bed.

The next day your friend catches you staring into space and jokingly asks if you’re getting engaged. You give a bittersweet smile and tell her not to worry—there’s no danger. But as the day progresses you get wrapped up in the here and now, and slowly you ease out of it. There’s a grand present to live, and so much to do, and one more person you’re glad you don’t have to do it with, and so many more still available to meet. Life’s good—and you’re not going to waste it wallowing in gloom.

 

From the Against-All-Odds Case Files

 

Case Study of the Correlation of “Approved” Behavior Patterns to Marriage Success in the Ultra Orthodox Community

Abstract: An Orthodox Jewish female was followed from when she became “of marriageable age” to see if her behavior patterns influenced the age at which she became engaged.

 

Introduction:

Females of marriageable age in the orthodox community feel themselves subject to many behavioral constraints (behavior including both deportment in public and patterns of dress). Behaving according to approved patterns (eg: “doing” hair before stepping outdoors, wearing dressy clothing daily, and not participating in activities considered unladylike) is believed to increase their “marryability” and therefore their chances of attaining a married state.

Method:

To ascertain the veracity of this widespread belief, we followed a subject randomly selected from the Flatbush community. Subject was an ultra orthodox female born, raised, and bred in the Flatbush neighborhood of Brooklyn, NY. Subject attended [xxx], an ordinary, local bais yaakov high school. Subject was 18 when study began and 22 when it concluded. Subject was followed unnoticed by “shadows” in white lab coats with turned up collars, white-framed sunglasses, and a wire in their ears insulated with white rubber. Said shadows surreptitiously followed the subject around the clock with minor exceptions (eg: showering, f’breezing socks, 3-hour telephone conversations, etc.), taking note of all her activities. Each activity was then classified into one of three categories: Good for Shidduchim, Bad for Shidduchim, and Neutral. When subject became engaged, the numbers were tallied and subjected to all sorts of painful statistical analysises (??) (eg: t tests, chi squares, controlling for a variables like weather, luck, persistent shadchan relatives, etc.) which are discussed further in the conclusion. Below are sample notes from the subjects file.

2004: Subject graduates high school but does not attend seminary in Israel. Is verified to be attending a local seminary with the intention of continuing into college the follow years.

Subject spotted racing a friend up the front stairs of the Museum of Natural History. Both collapse giggling on the top step.

2005: Due to monetary constraints, Subject attends a non-Jewish, mixed, college, where she has been seen exchanging the time of day with members of the other gender. Subject dresses daily in long skirts and polo shirts, as well as socks.

Subject spotted racing around and around in a revolving door in front of a Manhattan chain store until building personnel dismiss her. A relative stands at a distance pretending to be unrelated. Subject fails to care.

2006: Subject joins the Student Council at aforementioned college, where she occasionally has reason to fraternize with the enemy – er, correction, other elements. Subject is seen wearing ponytail daily.

Subject seen racing shopping carts in the aisle of Target in downtown Brooklyn. Several observers pretend not to notice, some of them Ultra Orthodox.

2007: Subject attempts to skateboard in the sporting goods section of the Wal Mart that services Lakewood. Subject crashed into display and must put it back together. Eight ultra-orthodox women passed by while she does so.

Subject spotted whizzing around Palisades Mall in one of the scooters made available for the handicapped – during chol hamoed.

2008: Subject seen playing catch in a toy store in Kings Plaza Mall, not knowing that a shadchan was browsing the Rubik’s cube selection in the next aisle.

Subject unaccountably engaged to young man from Flatbush.

Below see a sample table of the subjects behaviors classified.

 

Good for Shidduchim	Bad for Shidduchim	Neutral
Dressed up and attended bar mitzvah in shul	Missed a family vort to study anatomy	Wore a powder blue suit to a wedding
Wore a black suit to a friend’s wedding	Tried to mail a pineapple from the Avenue J post office	Became pen pals with a child in India.
Visited a number of shadchanim	Didn’t wear makeup to a l’chaim	Did exceedingly well in her coursework
Wore a short skirt and tights every time she ventured into commercial Flatbush	Wore a college sweatshirt while taking out the garbage	Owns crocs

Conclusion:

While the subject became engaged somewhat after the generally considered optimal age of 21, statistical analysis finds the gap to be non-significant even when controlled for all possible variables, and several impossible ones. It does not seem like the subject’s behavior significantly inhibited her marriage prospects, however, further study on a larger cohort will be necessary to draw any serious conclusions.

 

You Don’t Reject Me, I Reject You First

Pride is such a strange thing. It serves little purpose, and yet is so imperative to our self-perception. And one thing that wounds our pride to no end is rejection. We’ve all experienced it to some extent, be it by not being accepted to a choir, acting, or dance group; not being picked for a sports team; not being accepted to a seminary, or not being hired for a job. There’s always that “But I thought I was perfect for it!” and the hurt feeling upon discovering that clearly someone out there—or even several someones—were even more perfect.

Often we develop Sour Grape Syndrome, so well observed by Aesop centuries ago. In modern example, it’s the pink-slipped employee who informs his boss, “You can’t fire me because I quit first.” And if we know the metaphoric pink slip is coming, we scramble to quit first, so we’re in the prized position of rejecter, and not that of rejected.

So there’s always that little hurt when a guy says “No thanks, not again,” or even “No thanks, not even a first try.” There’s always that “Hey, wasn’t I good enough for you?” Especially if you were going to give it another go, because why not? You weren’t going to quit, but then he goes and fires you. And you’re left with your pink slip unable to shout, “But I really rejected you first! I was just being nice!”

Ah, pride. Have I mentioned that dating is a character-building experience?

Obviously he isn’t rejecting you, he has simply made an assessment that you and he are not compatible in the long term. And it doesn’t matter who voices this evaluation first, because the end result is the same. And he’s actually saving you from another pointless bout with the wardrobe and makeup, so you should be grateful. So let the stupid pride rest and be happy to get on with life. Just reject the feeling of rejection. Now that should boost your self-esteem.

The Male Perspective

A while ago someone suggested I write a post about guys who ignore the “script” for dating, for example by accepting the drink offered by the parents. A nice idea, but I’d been unaware that this was taboo. Fact is, I’m not entirely sure what the guy’s side of dating looks like. I know they’re supposed to find, borrow, rent, or steal a car for the purpose (except when they don’t, and you have to meet them somewhere) and I know they’re supposed to find a nearby place to eat or sit, but they don’t always do this either, and I’ve had a terribly awkward date in the “lobby” of the Boro Park Plaza, which consists of two couches right next to the entrance where every Dovid, Yoiyle, Shprintza and Ayelet passes by and throws you a sweet “oh a dating couple” glance, and then stand at a surreptitious distance making bets over whether it’s your first date or third. Men have my sympathy for having to undergo parental grilling and for having the tough task of deciding if this girl thinks any civilized male opens car doors or  who is adamant about being capable of opening her own doors, thank you very much. I know it isn’t easy being green or a dating man (often enough they’re the same thing), but I don’t really know all that much about it.

So the “write a date from the male point of view” suggestion below the Shirt Color post made me wonder. C’mon guys. What’s it like to go on a date?

Would You Please Be Normal?

Begs one dating guy.

Us Two the Same?

No matter how wide the table, if you sit opposite a man you are bound to find his feet under your chair at some point in the meal, but usually toward the end. This is because of one of what my father posits are the basic differences between the sexes: women curl up; men stretch out.

I argue this rule by pointing out that though I do curl up, I often enjoy stretching out, and have upon occasion deposited my own feet under other people’s chairs. My father simply uses this as supporting argument to his lament that though he has three daughters, he has only one girl.

This is not related to shidduchim in any way, except that this Shobbos I had my legs stretched out underneath a very wide table, ankles crossed, top foot gently swinging and tapping against the foot of the table. Except, after a moment, I realized that it was not, in fact, tapping the foot of the table, it was tapping the broad underside of the shoe shodding the foot of the man opposite me. I immediately remedied this situation by withdrawing to a curled up position, because it is not good for shidduchim to be playing footsie with someone else’s husband.

I was at a young couples’ Shobbos meal. Not strictly a young couples’ meal because I was there, as were some other singles of both genders, but most of the table was taken up by married women holding recently produced offspring, some with husbands doing similar service to an additional yearling. I was chatting with the woman next to me because she was being friendly because this was not Brooklyn and therefore people are supposed to want to meet you. I happen to be unfriendly in any location and setting, but was playing along and hoping she wouldn’t realize.

Well, it turned out we went to seminaries right down the block from each other. “How interesting,” I said, mulling over the ramifications of this and coming up blank. Her husband did me one better.

“You might have passed in the street without knowing it,” he said.

“We were there the same year?” I sat up. “You’re 21?”

OK, I know there are people my age who are married and even actively increasing world population, but it’s odd to be talking to someone with a Shevy on her head, a baby on her lap, and husband at her elbow, and discover that, in fact you are the exact same age. Yet here she is, matched and settled, and I’m still a drifter, passing through for a Shobbos, untied, unmatched, and unwigged.

Only three years ago – but gently pushing four – we might have waited for a bus in disinterested companionship, or even snuck into her menahel’s office together to watch the “prusta” dance segment from “Oliver! With a Twist.” (Six students, six opinions on what might be objectionable about it, which just goes to show… something.) There was no difference between us – we were both in seminary having a grand time. And now she’d taken the lead, and could talk knowledgeably about property taxes and early child development (firsthand, not from psych class) with women years older, while I was still gadding about in college for lack of anything else to do.

I realized that I didn’t care much, but it still felt strange. More about that later.

 

Shirt Color

After the hats post, someone asked me “address” shirt color. I initially hesitated because what is there to “address” exactly? It seems to me axiomatic that the folks who don’t carry their hats around with them perpetually are generally the same ones who wear colored shirts. But eventually I figured that what she wanted was a sort of well-researched exposition of the white-shirt phenomenon.

So I looked into it. We all know that the yeshivish community seems to have something against non-white shirts, with a few obvious exceptions, like Chofetz Chaim. There are also other levels, like the “just blue shirt” crowd, the “any color oxford” crowd, the “anything with a collar” bunch, and the “what’s wrong with a t-shirt?” type. But among the yeshivish, anything not white or white-on-white simply won’t do. Granted, we often see things in black and white terms, but this is ridiculous.

At first I assumed it was because of a line of thinking explained by one Touro professor: he says that black and white are two colors that, no matter the shade, time of year, or circumstances, always, without fail, match. And they’re never out of season. And so on. Well, if you’re going to let a guy dorm from the age of 14, you can’t expect him to know that black and brown don’t “go,” so you tell him not to even try, just wear black and white.

To test my theory, I asked my father, who was wearing a nice brown plaid shirt, why yeshiva guys only wear black and white. “Because most sheep are either black or white?” he hazarded. Heh heh. Clearly it’s time for a family trip to the petting zoo. Instead, I pulled a picture of a great-great-grandfather off the bookcase and pointed to his white shirt. “Is he a sheep?”

“He’s a rav. Rabbeim have always worn white and black.”

Unsatisfied, I flipped through the album of my father’s pictures from his Israeli yeshiva days. All white shirts, but goodness, you should see the ties they wore!

“You’re only wearing white button-down shirts,” I point out.

“I was a yeshiva bochur in Israel,” he says, like it’s duh. Granted, Israel has always been way ahead of us in frumkeit mishigasim, but it’s still not duh.

“And they’re all yeshiva bochurim in Lakewood, so?” I didn’t ask. Instead I called a friend whose husband is a yeshiva yungerman in Lakewood. “Why does he wear white shirts?” I asked.

“Because his rabbeim do,” she answered promptly.

“Does he make fun of reggae fans who wear borsolinos?” I didn’t ask. Her husband wouldn’t know Matisyahu from a king without a crown, and certainly not about the new lucrative niche market for black fedoras. But it makes sense, after all. If you admire someone and want to be like them, you imitate them. That’s why young journalists copy the interrogation methods of seasoned veterans, and hundreds of teenaged boys who have never chewed tobacco in their lives spit when they step up to the plate, and hold the bat just like Derek Jeter.

But not all bochurim are wearing what their rabbeim wear. As part of the prep for this, I fired off an email to a brother in Israel who wears colored shirts and asked him to pass the questions along to the brother who doesn’t. Brother in colored shirts answered the following:

White or blue shirts. Nice button-down blue shirts. Why? Because I like them and I think they make me look good.

Pants: various shades of purples, pink, or yellow usually on the odd days of the week. On the even days, black.

Brother in white answered this:

“Colored shirts: no. Other clothing is generally dark blue or black, ties excepted. Three most common tie colors are probably black, blue, or gold.

A lot of different reasons. Mostly, the same reason everyone else has for clothing – because that is what everyone else is doing and that is what makes people happy. If I was on my own and no on e else was around? I would probably wear the cheapest and easiest to get clothing I could find.”

Which basically means he’s wearing white shirts for the same reason he doesn’t wear a doublet, a kilt, or a studded leather jacket. No need to schedule a visit to the petting zoo; it comes to us bein hazmanim. (Ooh, that was mean. I’m not much of a rock-the-boat person myself, to be fair. So maybe we’ve got a petting zoo all year ‘round.)

Anyway, my conclusion is that it’s just one of those things. Guys who are in yeshiva all day wear white, some because they want to be like rabbeim and some because everyone else is, and people started judging based on it, and there you go. Welcome to modern urban Jewish society. Hope you enjoy your stay.

Just Not for Me – Nothing Specific, Just… Not for Me

Do you give a reason when you turn down another date? It seems an odd fact that people rarely do, and if forced to, won’t give the real reason why. People will say “It just wasn’t right” instead of “conversation dragged something awful” or “Not for me” in place of “My God what planet is (s)he from?!”

Question is, why?

Well, one reason might be because often people get a “feel,” and giving all the reasons that cumulated in the feel would be too complicated. Or sound stupid upon examination. Or they might be afraid of having their reasons shot down by the shadchan or getting into an argument – hey, it’s been known to happen. I know someone who forced a couple out on three dates practically at gunpoint. They finally got married, maybe because it was easier than trying to stop dating, but got divorced within a few years. (Crazy, no?)

Another possibility is that the person doesn’t want to seem critical – of either their shadchan or their date. Or maybe they’re afraid of being criticized themselves, and being labeled in the shadchan’s folder as “the sort who cares about xyz” (though if you do, then what’s the harm?). Maybe it just sounds like a shallow reason when verbalized, and they don’t want to come across that way.

Whatever the reason, you can almost certainly rest assured that when someone breaks off a dating streak, they aren’t going to give the real reason. And some daters know they can rely on this.

I’m referring to a post made on a message board elsewhere, which someone forwarded to me. The subject was a nice yeshiva guy who went out with a nice bais yaakov maidel. She sat there texting on her phone for the entire car ride, and also while he bought the drinks. He was appalled by how rude she was, as was the relative who posted the story. (I think “chutzpah” was the word used.) Naturally, he didn’t agree to go out again. But did he tell the shadchan “I don’t want to go out with someone so rude she texts friends during a date”? Nope. He said, “No thanks, not for me.”

For a grand total of two days I was puzzled about why a girl would go on a date and mess it up that badly. Then I read Aidel Knaidel’s post about shidduch coercion, and immediately put them together. Maybe the girl was on a date she didn’t want to be on – then or ever again. Saying “no” to a second date herself wouldn’t work, so she had to make it come from the guy.

Naturally she took a bit of a risk. She couldn’t know for sure that her date wouldn’t give the real reason for breaking it off, and if he would, she’d be in trouble. But overall it was a pretty safe bet. I mean, what guy wouldn’t feel weird saying, “She was texting the whole date”?

I would like to take the opportunity to say that, if the situation is anything like I’m interpreting it, I would think it extremely… (snobby? narrowminded? immature? petulant?) of her to not even give him a chance. She could always be rude on a later date,  or tell him she gets an irresistable urge to dance whenever she sees a red car, or just act grown up and say, “Hi, I don’t think this is going to work out, but I’m a drop helpless here, so can you please call it off?” At the very least it will lead to a discussion of why she doesn’t think it will work out, and he’ll either agree or she’ll change her mind.

However it ends, you can bet he’ll just tell the shadchan, “Sorry, just not for me.”

Oops, I Did It Again

Well, actually, this is the first time I know I definitely scared a guy off by being smart. I wouldn’t even call it smart. Just knowledgeable. I know a few brilliant people who don’t carry an aura of intelligence because they lack active curiosity. But I can’t help it—I like knowing things. I find things fascinating. And I often wrongly assume that others are interested as well. My friends know enough to nod and smile or roll their eyes and say “I really couldn’t care less.” But I guess it’s different on a date.

Anyway, he started it. He did say, “So this is the Hudson River?” There really was a question mark at the end of his sentence. And since he wasn’t local, I figured he might want to know that, in fact, it was the East River. Maybe I shouldn’t have added the interesting fact about how they’ve recently placed turbines under the river to capture energy from the tide. Not everyone finds alternative energy exciting. Especially the sort of people who aren’t clear on what a “turbine” is. But hey, yeshiva guys don’t know anything. I don’t expect better. All I expect is curiosity.

And he did mention the Brooklyn Bridge like something he’d heard of but never seen, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to mention why it was so famous. (Longest suspension bridge in its time. Considered a feat of engineering.) Or that if you walk across there are plaques stationed around the eastern tower with the historical information. Hey – he might want to file away the info for a future date. And it really shouldn’t be impressive that I know my way around Manhattan and the BQE – I live here. I know this stuff. And I love maps.

Yes, I know about career tracks besides my own. Life throws lots of information my way, and I don’t chuck all of it out just because it’s irrelevant to me. You never know when you’ll want to know the average price of law school or what the new masters requirement for CPAs entails.

But I probably shouldn’t have mentioned going on a sailing ship kick a few years ago. But there were ships, and we had to talk about something. He wasn’t exactly being forthcoming. But I guess when he saw me looking at a ship and asked “Anything interesting?” I should have realized that he obviously didn’t find them inherently interesting himself. Give me credit: I didn’t mention that I could name all the masts and many of the sails on a five-masted “tall ship,” nor did I mention once trying to figure out how the complicated rigging system works. But he asked how a ship could sail against the wind. I suppose I should have stopped after the two-sentence Very Basic Explanation, but, well, it didn’t really answer the question, and I thought he deserved a Somewhat Adequate Response.

But there was one thing I know I should not have mentioned, even briefly. One item I should not have dropped, even casually in passing, even with no intent of following it up. I don’t know what possessed me to say it, but say it I did. In sentence number four about sailing against the wind I mentioned the use of vector diagrams.

I think that pretty much killed it.

Oh well.

As everyone always says: It wasn’t meant to be.

Really, Folks

A person can’t disappear for two days without coming back and finding commenters treading the bounds of decency. This blog is rated PG for  moderate irreverence – let’s keep it that way, K?

I Have a Problem with You Problematic People

Everyone knows that people who have “complicated” family backgrounds need to start dating earlier and with more urgency. Fewer people will want to go out with them, fewer people will be looking to set them up, and in general, their chances are so narrow that they need to get a head start over those with normal backgrounds, normal families, and normal everything else.

Ri-ight.

If I hear another 17- or 18- or even 19-year-old give this as her rationale for making herself miserable over shidduchim I will hold her head under some ice cold water until she comes to grips with reality.

Reality is, you’ll get engaged when God sees fit, and to someone who likes you for you, and not your unproblematic background.

Let me tick off on my fingers now the number of “problematically backgrounded” people that I know… Letsee, two got engaged almost immediately out of high school. Another two within around 14 months of returning from seminary, another while in sem, and with this most recently engaged Problem Background, that makes six. I’m sure if I dug back a bit more I could dig up a few more happily married acquaintances with less than stellar backgrounds ranging from family illness to messy divorces, but I’m not even going to bother. What’s the point? Aside from the fact that none of them made it to 22 single?

This is not to say that nobody with an unusual background has a chance to enjoy the experience of being an old maid – I’m sure there are plenty (I just don’t happen to know them). But guess what – there are also a huge number of impeccably backgrounded people who reach old maidhood for no perceptible reason. So if you’re 18 and single, or even 19 and single, or, for horror’s sake, even 20 and single, it’s not the end of the world, okay? People with stranger backgrounds get married all the time, even to normally backgrounded people, so relax, stop biting your nails, and don’t skip class to visit the shadchan. Thank you.

Oh, for anyone who missed the reference, Friend #9 just found herself a match, against—according to her—all odds. Is it me, or are they dropping like flies?

 

Fixing the System: Your Best Suggestion

There have been many suggestions for how to fix the “shidduch system”, but Lawyer’s “coming out” ball idea caught me in a curious mood. What other odd ideas for marrying people off are floating around out there?

For those who have no idea what that is (Just4U, this is Just4U), in formal high society, young ladies coming of age were (“are” according to Wikipedia) referred to as “debutantes” (debs for short), and they “came out” into society at a ball. If their parents were rich or important enough, at their own ball; if not, then at a debutante ball, where they’d be formally presented to society among a line of debs, all dressed in white. All the fashionable young men would stand on the side and gaze, and then ask them to dance. And thus matches were made. (You might say Cinderella stole the show at a debutante ball.)

It sounds suspiciously like dancing on hilltops at Tu B’Av to me. But solutions to problems often come from radical ideas. So, just for the fun of it, what’s your best idea for fixing the system? Post below your best or your strangest.

PS: I’m going to be out all morning at least, so I’m turning off moderation so you can comment away in my absence. Please behave.

Mini-Meet

Had a great little meet with Scraps and Bas~Melech this Sunday. We discussed a wide range of things, from the exact definition of “flat shoes” (turns out I’ve been wearing flats unawares after all) to endurance feats like walking all 14 miles of Manhattan from top to bottom (Scraps did that) or rollerblading it from bottom to top (Bad4 did that). Also: bubble gum and chulent flavored ice cream; the calorie content of well-dressed salad versus that of ice cream; mid-college crises (Bas~Melech is thinking of having one; Bad4 already has); part-time versus full-time employ; the trade-offs of being well-paid versus having a life; the pros and cons of overeager versus undereager parents in regards to marrying one off; the travails of small-community Jewish school life (Scraps and Bas~Melech compare notes); the lack of Corner Point (not enough points), Dreamer (dropped out of the club), Mindy (didn’t read her email), Anon (antisocial), and Halfshared (other engagements); Shobbos at SerandEz; the culmination of finals at Touro College; if Oreos are as good as the hype…

(Above: Scraps had black raspberry, Bas~Melech had soft mixed with chocolate coating, and B4S had butterscotch. Right: Note club uniform [long skirts] and socks all around. The unshod one is Bas~Melech who felt her shoes were too trademark.)

Out of the Meat Locker and into the Market

Someone made the grievous error of using the word “on the market” at our Shobbos table.

“I hate that phrase,” announces my sister, who isn’t anywhere near being marketable.

“Is it worse than ‘in the parsha,’ ‘up for grabs,’ ‘available,’ or ‘in shidduchim’?” I ask.

“Yes!” She says emphatically, adding, “What’s wrong with ‘in shidduchim’?”

“Aside from the grammar? I guess not much. But why can’t you just say ‘dating’?”

“Euyuw. I don’t like that,” she disagrees.

“On the market is demeaning,” my father points out. “It makes me think of those Bedouin markets where a man can trade his sister for a camel.”

“Sister for a camel?” my sister perks up her ears. “Sounds like a good deal. Where’s the nearest?”

“A man can,” I emphasize. “And if Abba’s going to trade anyone off, it’ll probably be you. More expensive upkeep.”

She makes indignant noises and my father rushes to her aid. “Don’t feel so comfortable,” he tells me. “If you outstay your welcome we might decide to dispose of you the easy way.”[*]

Now it’s my turn to make indignant noises while my sister smirks.

“Actually, it always made me think of a cattle auction,” she says. “’Daughter up for sale, nice teeth and hooves, who wants her’ type.”

“Except you go try describing a girl as a ‘nice fat cow’ and see how successful you are marrying her off.”

“I don’t like the description of boys as ‘out of the freezer’ either,” my father continues. I’m puzzled. “Why not? They’re in the freezer, they come out, they’re out of the freezer. As long as they don’t come out like Lucille Ball in the meat locker episode…”

“Exactly!” he says. “It sounds like a meat locker. Like the guy is just a nice side of beef you’re taking out to barbeque.”

“Or sell in the supermarket. After all, he comes out of the freezer and goes on the market too,” I point out.

“It’s a shidduch!” my sister shrieks. “Sirloin steak, meet nice fat cow! It’s perfect!”

Mazal tov.

[*Edit - when gas prices were high, we again revisited this subject. Camels are far more fuel efficient than daughters or cars.]

On the Heels of Last Post

Sitting there measuring my heels brought to mind a story from seminary. I spent a Shobbos by a set of expatriated Bluegrass Country Jews. As soon as I walked through the door on Friday they plopped into my hands a piece of sweet potato pah that was so delicious it must have taken ten years off my life, but every year was worth it. Over for a meal were a brother and sister from the “alte heim”, who assured me that the South didn’t lose, they just stopped fightin’, and then threw in a couple of racist jokes to cement in my mind their “real southerner” status. They spent most of lunch gossiping – pardon, reminiscing – about the folks back in their hometown.

(“Remember when Old Man Davis was pulled over by a state trooper?”

“No but that must have been something! The only day of the year he could pass a breath test was Yom Kippur.”

 “Not surprised. Were you ever in his basement? It was one of those long ranch houses. You stand by the stairs and flick a light: shelves of Wild Turkey. Flick the next: shelves of Wild Turkey. Flick the third: Shelves of Wild Turkey. All the way down. Can you believe it?”

“Sure can! He showed me once under his bed – a dozen bottles of Wild Turkey, ‘In case he got thirsty at night’.”

“You know, he used to show up at shul a half hour before shachris every day and then criticize the rabbi for coming late.”

At some point I resolved that I was going to abandon NYC for more interesting pastures, preferably bluegrass pastures, but I digress.)

Over the sweet potato pah they asked the sister what she was doing in Israel? She said that back in real life, she was sharing an apartment in NYC with three obnoxious other singles, working and waiting to get married. She’d been out with every boy in Sheor Yashuv, and if that wasn’t enough to bring tears of sympathy to our eyes, she described a few dates. (One guy showed up in a clown wig, another sat outside in the car and honked until she came out.) Finally sick of it all, and especially of New York, she took off to Neve for a month of R&R.

 Well, what does your average grandmotherly-type think when she hears a tale like that? Naturally, “Maybe I can relieve this poor girl’s plight by finding her bashert!” So dessert wasn’t long on our plates before she was describing a guy who seemed, in all respects, quite perfect for our Southern belle. Everyone agreed that after Shobbos our gracious hostess should make some calls and collect this fellow’s information so that perhaps Southern Belle could be engaged before returning to the Big Apple.

Well, after Shobbos exactly that happened. Hostess bustled and called and collected all the information. But calamity of calamities! Mr. Perfect was an inch shorter than Southern Belle! Hostess was ridden with anxiety, but I soothed her. After all, anyone who had dated an entire yeshiva would surely not be picky about a mere inch. “No, no, these things make a difference,” worried Hostess. And indeed, she called Belle and was told that a man an inch shorter was simply not acceptable. I was flabbergasted. But now I realize I simply didn’t understand: she hadn’t brought any flats.

 

Dating Napoleon

Life, when you think about it, is a pretty exciting thing to be involved in. If you stick at it for long enough, you find yourself doing all sort of interesting things, many of which you never imagined likely. Being “in shidduchim” is like soaking in distilled life; sooner than later you are going to find yourself busy with some extraordinarily strange task.

Which is why I found myself sitting on the floor of my room with a tape measure, measuring the heels on my shoes.

I must say, I have never thought much about shoes heels, except that I like them like Goldilocks: not to high, not too low, but just right. There’s quite a bit of space between the extremes, so my height can vary considerably, depending on the day’s outfit.

There’s a rule in shidduch dating that on the date itself, the woman is bound to be about two inches taller than described on her “profile,” due to heels, while at the smaller end of the spectrum, the man is bound to be two inches shorter than claimed, because he measured with his hat on. Thus, a dating pair where the female half is physically shorter than the male half can easily appear the opposite way when they’re all dressed up and marching into a hotel lobby.

Aside from incongruousness of appearance, this should have no ill effects, but in fact, it makes life very difficult for women who are either tall, or who are dating short men. It is considered courteous to choose one’s heels so one is not taller than one’s male escort on a date. Men, apparently, do not appreciate looking up to women any more than women relish looking down on men. For me, at an average 5’4.25”, this has never really been a problem before. But then Mr. 5’6”-but-he-might-be-lying appeared at the top of my long list of suitors.

I was faced with a serious conundrum: two-inch heels should, ostensibly, put us about even with each other. However, if he’s lying, I’d be taller. To complicate the matter, the pair of shoes that go with my official “first date” outfit are more along the lines of 2.5- or 3-inch heels, which would put me above the height of his wildest dreams. Not having quite as many shoes as the average American woman (19 pairs), I didn’t exactly have many options. It was either try to pull together something else acceptable to wear (my second date outfit was recently retired, and I haven’t yet had reason to think deeply about a third), or wear the wrong shoes, or just be taller. The first was too strenuous, the second intolerable, so after much agonizing, I opted for the third. After, all we’d be sitting most of the time.

I wore the heels.

I think he was lying.

There was no second date.

The above three statements may or may not be related.

Mazal Tov to Our Very Own…

I’m probably the last one on the uptake here (as usual), but Dreamer seems to have found herself a significant other.

CONGRATS!

Wishing her mazal tov and a heady engagement, though it would be nice if she’d swoop down every now and then to let us know how wonderful everything is. In other words: don’t disappear on us, K?

The Perfect (Wo)Man

Once in seminary I was lolling on my bed describing the kind of person I wanted to marry. About halfway through describing the perfect, thoughtful, well-adjusted, straight-shooting, considerate, and probably non-existent male, I paused and went sheepish.

“I guess I have a bit of a double standard,” I admitted, realizing that I wasn’t exactly the most perfect female myself.

While dating, a person gets to meet a lot of people with character traits that rub them wrong. Every now and then I pause and wonder how many intolerable traits I have myself.

At the bottom of my “things to do while single” list – where all the really worthwhile ideas seem to congregate – is “While waiting for the perfect man, become the perfect woman.” Unfortunately, like most things down there, it tends not to get addressed.

So here’s a new resolution to improve in ways not measurable by test scores or physical evaluation. If you catch me reneging in any way whatsoever, do let me know.

I See, You See, We All See Me

I was in another town for family Shobbos sheva brachos. What could be better: no food to prepare, no dishes to wash… just travel time and socializing with cousins. And, of course, being seen.

It didn’t start off that way. But Friday afternoon when my mother said, offhandedly, “I hear there’s a shadchan down the block – interested in going to see her?” I looked at my mother’s hopeful face and sighed. “OK, I guess one can’t hurt.”

Ever hear the saying, “Give a finger, lose a hand?” Sometimes it just pays to stand firm about these things.

Friday night my mother gestures me over to a table where she’s talking to a woman I’ve never seen before, and I bet she hasn’t either. “I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Bad4,” she says. I try my best to look like amiable and not disgruntled. My younger sister is fond of telling me that when I’m even mildly annoyed I look like I want to kill someone. Not a great way to greet strangers. So I smooth out the crease between my eyebrows and give my best Duchenne smile. We go through the blah-de-blah about what am I doing now and that’s so nice and what are my plans? She didn’t ask what I’m looking for. Big relief on my part, but also irritating—she had no intention of setting me up, so why was I standing there making small talk? This happened once more, instigated by my father this time. And it would have happened a third time if I hadn’t left shortly after bentching. “I was singing your praises and wanted to point you out but you’d left,” complained the parent. “Sorry,” I lied.

The next morning after davening I was sprawled on my sister’s bed factoring polynomials in my head (That’s what happens when you pack in a rush and have only a precalculus book as entertainment) when my sister rushes in. “What are you doing here? Get moving! There’s a shadchan in shul! Aunt Tzivya is talking to her but she might leave soon!” I groan and roll over, close the book, and look around the room for my shoes. I locate them and propel myself off the bed in their general direction. I slip my feet in and then fumble with the clasps. My sister is dancing with impatience. “Hurry-hurry-hurry!” I look around for my coat. Where is the blasted thing? Maybe I left it in the other room. I head in that direction when my sister yanks me back. “Your coat’s over there! Hurry up!” I turn toward it while my mother walks in. “Maaa! Bad4’s just walking around in circles doing nothing!” my sister complains. I finish yanking on my coat and march over to her, fist raised. “Would you mind very much if I punched you in the nose right now?”

She looks at me blandly. “Of course I would! Why would you want to do that to me?”

I brush past her and head to shul, mother at my side. As we approach, a cousin stationed in front of the shul jumps and waves, “This way! They’re in there!”

“Ma,” I growl, “This is not what I signed up for. I refuse to do this again.” No answer. “And I mean it. Are you listening?”

“I’m listening, but I don’t understand what you object to.”

“The fuss! This is practically a military operation. If it wasn’t Shobbos there would be relays with walkie-talkies!”

My mother rolls her eyes, but as we enter the doors another relay of cousin directs us to where my aunt is gesturing at me to come-come-come.

“Is there a cliff nearby?” I ask quietly. “I’d like to jump off.” My mother smiles indulgently.

The shadchan, it turned out, had married off a perennially-dating second cousin of mine. She hadn’t known him at all; had bumped into him going into a shul and figured he was about the right age for this other girl she knew so why not set them up?—turned out she was wrong about the age, but they didn’t find that out until after the first date, and now they’re happily married, which goes to show that this woman is so good she can make shidduchim with her eyes closed, which is supposed to fill me with confidence that she’ll get me married off even though our meeting mostly consisted of me listening to her “war stories.”

“You need to talk about yourself more,” disapproved my mother afterwards.

“I don’t like talking about myself,” I muttered from within my coat. It’s not a matter of modesty, per se. I think I’m better than about 50% of humankind. I just don’t know what to say about it. It’s a terrible handicap in our modern times, but so is being a white non-minority. You live with it.

By the time lunch was over I’d been introduced to two more strangers. Seuda shlishis added another to the list. Where did my parents find these people? Nor did the travails end with Shobbos, because apparently none of the shadchanim I’d yet met were “the shadchan down the block.” So motzai Shobbos had me hauled around to two more women (one down the block, one not) who at some point in their lives had successfully made a shidduch and thereby became instant celebrities in the singles world.

“You make a good presentation,” one said, after giving me the elevator eyes.

“Why thank you,” I said graciously. “It was a group effort; I’ll distribute the compliment accordingly.”

OK, I didn’t.

Please Don’t Engage Me

Sorry ‘bout being late today. It’s been a busy week. I usually have some posts “in the galleys” for busy weeks, but last week was busy too. And don’t you dare look at me like that; it’s term paper season. Being “busy” doesn’t always mean being “busy.” No, I am not on the brink of engagement.

It seems like a “girl” in shidduchim can’t make any changes to her routine or appearance without being accused of serious dating. A friend of mine told me that at her friend’s l’chaim, someone said, “I thought there was something going on… she’s lost so much weight!” To which friend replied, “Nice try, but she lost half of it before she met him.”

At the beginning of last year I had a job on Mondays and Wednesdays, 9-5. So on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Touro College days, I dressed down, in a way that was probably bad for shidduchim. Then, about halfway through the year I switched to a job that had morning hours, Monday through Thursday. And suddenly I was showing up in Touro College dressed up instead of down. It is absolutely disgusting how many people said things along the lines of, “Is there something I should know about?” or otherwise hinted that it was just a matter of time before they heard from me at a strange hour of the night. Irritated, I borrowed a costume jewelry bracelet that was silver and set with a few dozen rhinestone diamonds, which, if you don’t know, is the symbol of engagement among local young ladies. It raised a few eyebrows and made a few people, in their own words, “wonder,” but nobody congratulated me. Oh well.

Then there was the time I briefly took up a tutoring job and had to get home at certain hours and be unavailable shortly after. “No it is not for a date,” I had to specify, because otherwise the rumor-mill would have my wedding date settled on by the end of the week.

Many people figure they can plot dating patterns based on frequency of “doing” hair, niceness of dress, new additions of clothing to the wardrobe, and lack of availability in the evening. When these patterns persist or increase over time, they believe they can confidently expect an engagement. Unfortunately, these are all rather superficial signs, and easily read into when there’s nothing to read.

Commenter mickey mouse has her own methodology for predicting engagements. She points out that after a certain period of dating, you begin to hear with greater frequency things like “I was discussing that with someone and…” or “Somebody told me…”

I have learned the hard way that you never ever ask “Who told you that?” no matter how outrageous it is. Not unless you want to watch a friend blush, squirm, and eventually, lie. (Because “Oh I don’t remember I heard it somewhere” is still a lie.)

But, says mickey mouse, you know an engagement is impending when the pattern changes to “we.” Meaning, “We were just discussing that yesterday!” More subtle than dress patterns, and possibly more accurate; we should probably do a serious study to test it out (and by “we” I mean the general population involved with dating couples, and not me and some significant male).

Considering how briefly I think before I speak, the “we” pattern will probably be a fair predictor for me, so please don’t monitor my clothing or availability because you are just going to be disappointed. And someone agrees with me.

It’s Officially Unofficial!

Another friend has officially joined the dark side, and Bad4 is officially confused about the official part of it.

I’ve never understood this “not officially engaged until tomorrow night” business. Either you’re engaged or you’re not. If he proposed and you accepted, then you’re engaged. If he didn’t propose and you didn’t accept, then you’re not. And if he didn’t propose but you both know he’s going to propose and that you’re going to accept, that makes you, apparently, unofficially engaged, and also, in my opinion, quite weird. Why not get it over with already? How do you end up in that sort of situation anyway? He calls up and says, “I’m going to propose tomorrow at 4 pm,” and if she doesn’t say, “I’m going to refuse you tomorrow at 4 pm” then they go ahead and tell everyone that they’re “getting engaged”? But you can’t say mazal tov yet, because they’re not engaged. So what’s the point? Mostly so you can be parked outside their house when you get the call on your cell phone, “I’m engaged!” so you can run in to their l’chaim shrieking, “Ohmigoshohmogosh! You’re engaged?!!? Mazal tov! When did it happen? I had no idea!”

I used to not understand this “unofficial” business at all, but I think I have a handle on it now. I’ve been getting a lot of this “when you get engaged, you better tell me” business. Ironically, the more you tell people that you’re not getting engaged, the more firmly they believe that you’re a hop skip jump from a diamond ring, and the more urgently they press upon you the importance of letting them know ASAP – preferably before it happens. In fact, while trying to notify people that Friend #7 is now “officially” engaged, I had at least two conversations that went roughly like this:

Me: Guess who’s got herself engaged?

Her: You?

Me: No! Would I go and do something like that? Friend #7 is engaged to Guy #7 from Location #7! How cool is that?

So when I run down the list of people who absolutely must know the minute I get engaged, it makes me want to crawl into bed and not go out. First there’s your parents, because heaven knows they’ve been waiting long enough for the opportunity to hang up the phone, slap each other five, and go, “Ye-ah! Finally she’s someone else’s problem!” Then there’s your grandparents because you can’t have them find out second hand – that’s just rude. And any siblings who are married need to be informed as well. Then either you or your parents need to call the aunts and uncles who would be insulted to find out from anyone else, even though you know they’re going to wrinkled their foreheads and wonder, “Someone proposed to her? Well, every pot has a lid. Can’t wait to meet this guy.” But before them come your close friends who you really want to tell because you’ve been dying to tell them about this super-awesome guy you’ve been dating for weeks, but couldn’t. And then there are the good friends who absolutely cannot find out from OnlySimchas first, or you can kiss your bridal shower goodbye. And a handful of friends you need to call because they’d want to hear it from you, for some reason. In summary, getting engaged sounds like a headache of obligations.

This “unofficial” engagement takes care of all that. The first tiers of people to find out are of course the parents and grandparents. They surreptitiously spread the information to immediate relatives so they can be strategically nearby when it becomes “official.” Meanwhile, since no secret stays a secret once more than one person knows it, it somehow gets leaked to a single loudmouth friend. Because it’s a leak, nobody feels insulted that they weren’t told directly, because of course no friends are being told directly, because it isn’t official. And of course they only spread it among the upper tier of friends, who are all primed to be available the minute you call them. But you don’t need to call them. Because along with the information that you’re “unofficially engaged” comes the release time for the official engagement. As soon as the clock strikes, your name is on OnlySimchas and friends are calling each other, and everyone understands that they’re not hearing second-hand because nobody has yet heard first hand. So when you finally get around to calling, nobody minds that you’re the fifth person to tell them that you’re engaged. How efficient is that?

It works very well, but it’s still silly. If and when I get proposed to, I’m going to give my answer and go home and go to bed. My parents will sleep better if I don’t tell them until the next morning, and I can do all my phone-calling over a leisure breakfast. Nobody will be insulted because everyone will be insulted. It’ll work great! I think.

 

Pettiness Award: Too Dark, Too Light, Just Right

It was a fine winter afternoon in the Syrian shul when a would-be shadchan bustled up to an eligible bachelor who was enjoying a piece of potato kugel. “She’s here! The girl I’ve been raving about for you is here today!”

Eligible bachelor perked up his ears – what was left of them, after having them talked off about the virtues of this wonderful young lady. “Well, where is she?” he asked.

“Over there, over there,” the shadchan points to a pretty young woman chatting with her friends.

“That one on the left side?” frowned the bachelor.

“Yes, and she’s perfect for you,” enthused the shadchan.

“She’s too dark,” dismissed the bachelor, and went back to his potato kugel.

Now I’ve noticed that many of our Middle Eastern brethren are all gung-ho about assimilating into Ashkenazi culture – why else would they prefer potato kugel to that delicious rice their parents make? -  but too dark?

Mind the (Age) Gap

Opinion question: How do you feel about age gaps?

The age gap question is glaringly in the forefront of the shidduch scene consciousness ever since the Shidduch Initiative started offering cash to shadchanim who successfully match men with older women. Many younger women object to this, pointing out that men their age are immature dorks, and they’d rather someone who can pass as a grown up.

Whenever I’m in a group of women and someone mentions that someone got engaged to a 20- or 21-year-old guy, someone will invariably say, “Twenty one? He’s a baby! Who let him start dating?” Then someone else chimes in, “Yeah, boys at that age boys are so immature.” Everyone nods in agreement and I decide to stir things up a bit. So I pipe up, “My oldest brother got married at 21,” because this invariably makes it suddenly OK for 21-year-old males to marry – at least until I leave the room and someone asks, “Who let him start dating?” (Answer: my parents. They honestly did not believe that he would go and propose to the first girl he met.)

At the other end of the spectrum, many refuse to date anyone more than 5 or 6 years older than themselves. I’ve been getting the question “Will you date someone who is 27” since I first started dating. It seems to be one of those peculiar facts of life that any man who could remotely be considered a match for Bad4 is exactly 27-years-old – 26- and 28- year-olds need not apply. It’s not a phenomenon I can explain; perhaps some mental epiphany at that age makes them suddenly appreciate the Bad4s of the world, or else that’s around when they start getting desperate.

Anyhow, the first time I was asked, it definitely gave me pause, but I couldn’t quite figure out why. The only problem I could come up with was “Who wants a spouse who’ll be retired seven years before you?” Just imagine – he’ll be sleeping late while you rush to catch the train and lolling on the porch reading mystery novels while you check your voicemail. Then he’ll be wanting to buy an RV and start his post-retirement cross-continental wanderings, as trendy retirees do these days, but you’ll be chained to your desk. This can not possibly bode well for shalom bayis.

I eventually decided to risk it and gave the thumbs up – if it wasn’t a match I could always say no – but I’ve been getting the question steadily ever since – and it gets sillier as I age. (Now I can answer, “I don’t mind, but you might, since you forfeit $800 if we marry.”)

So, consider your opinion solicited: how important is age? What’s the optimal age gap? What’s the most bizarre age difference you’ve heard of?

Amnesia Cured

Remember the forgetful Married Friend? Well soon after I posted about her, I received an email:

“I guess I forgot [these] two because of selective memory. I was blocking it out bec. it wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience.” Meaning, it’s not being married, it’s selective amnesia.

She detailed two more shadchan incidents for our edification.

One shadchan was in Cedarhurst. Getting there was a bit of a problem for someone located in Brooklyn and lacking a car, but my very determined Friend managed to get there anyway. They had a stiff introduction and the shadchan asked a few key questions about where Friend was from and where she was heading. The former was appalling (outside of the tristate area in a town mostly run by Chabad <shudder/>), the latter disappointing (she wasn’t entirely sure, but probably special ed and she wasn’t either sure but probably a long-term learner). The woman informed my friend that she only deals with a “certain caliber of girls,” and Friend definitely did not make the cut. Didn’t anyone tell this woman that single girls have delicate self-esteems? Oh wait—it’s women like that who cause the problem.

The second was a guy in Queens – not either very easy to get to, but Friend was very determined to get married, so off she went, living proof that nothing stands in the way of willpower. Of course, scheduling a time wasn’t a simple matter. Mr. Shadchan was a very busy man involved in many important things, and shidduchim was at the bottom of the heap. However, he made time, she showed up, and after a few questions he said, “I’m not going to have anyone for you. Go back home.”

Which reminds me of a different story of hers that I don’t think I’ve mentioned yet. The one where she trekked out to another city to meet with someone, answered all the difficult questions, and made herself out to be infinitely desirable. The woman flipped through her notebook and asked, “Would you date someone in the 27-32 age range?” (Friend was around 20.) Friend said “No.” Shadchan said, “Well I only deal with that crowd.” Friend did not punch Shadchan in the face and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me that before I traveled two hours and spent a third telling you my life story and will spend a fourth and fifth getting back?!” Which I think showed a considerable amount of self-control on the part of Friend. But we all know how great shidduchim is for character development. Imagine if everyone spoke to their spouses with the same openness and delicacy with which singles address their shadchanim.

Assembly Line

Ever hung around the younger sister of the bride at a wedding reception? Or been one? Oh the things she has to endure! When she isn’t being completely ignored, that is. Everyone comes over to wish their most sugary “Mazal tov! Isn’t this so nice?” and then, lacking anything to follow that up with, they smile and add, “So you’re next in line – we have to start looking for you!”

It doesn’t seem to matter if the sister is 18 or 13, she invariably has to pretend that this is the cleverest thing she’s never yet heard at least five times before the night is over.

It’s more common when there is a series of sons or daughters lined up right behind each other in age like dominoes. Outsiders tend think of them as items on an assembly line. Each daughter moves through the stages of life behind the other, oh-so-neatly. One daughter arrives at the marriage station of the manufacturing process, and the others patiently wait behind on the stalled conveyor belt for her to get her husband affixed. When she’s matched, the assembly line starts up again, moving the next daughter up to the marriage station. When aunts at a wedding say, “Sooo, it’s your turn now,” they are metaphorically cranking up the machinery to move the next daughter forward. Under the blare of music and the tinkled of cutlery on china, you should be hearing the hiss of air from pistons and the grinding of gears as the younger sister is shoved forward to be paired off.

Some single women complain that they feel like cattle, what with all the “on the market” lingo and up-and-down glances they get. Cattle, at least, is a form of life. A girl in a line of girls might get the impression that she’s merely a radio or a flashlight.

My favorite follow-up to the “You’re next” line? “Oh! No pressure of course!” when the commenter realizes that there’s a crisis on, and the poor dear girl might wait as much as four to six years at the marriage manufacturing station. If you don’t remind her that everyone is watching and waiting, maybe she won’t notice.

No pressure, gals. Take your time. Just don’t hang around past your “Best By” date. Er… that would make you a gallon of milk.

Yes, I Talk to… Those Things. The Other Type of Human – Not Female

One of my favorite memories from seminary (don’t judge the contents of my year by this; I have weird priorities) happened at a high school reunion in BJJ.

It was Succos time, and someone decided that we must all be so miserably friendless in our respective seminaries and so sad to have been physically separated from our high school friends for a whole three weeks (not verbally, thanks to cell phones) that nothing would cheer us up so much as a reunion.

Well, there we were standing around catching up, “So, how’s your seminary?” “Oh fine. The teachers are great and I’m sure the girls would be great too if they’d get enough sleep to hold an intelligent conversation. And yours?” “Pretty much the same.” “Sooo… um…”

…When suddenly my cousin walks through the room. This is a bit strange, because why would my cousin be in Israel, let alone BJJ? But naturally I go over and say hello and we have a catch-up chat right then and there. Said cousin was newly married and honeymooning in Israel and of course I was welcome to come for Shobbos except they didn’t have a spare inch so I’d have to sleep elsewhere, and was I in BJJ? Then where was I? And so on.

As we progress through the backlog, I notice that we’re getting very strange looks. In fact, there’s a blurred ring of wide-eyed faces in my periphery vision. As soon as we finish and go our separate ways, the faces look away, except one who is kind enough to come over to me and ask, quietly, “What was that about?”

I scrunch up my forehead. “Whattaya mean? Just catching up with my cousin.”

Kind One explains, “He’s our handyman. We’re not allowed to talk to him.”
There are too many things wrong with this scenario, so I won’t go into them. But the subject of how awful it would be for shidduchim if this happened on Avenue J came up in a conversation. The Married Friend grinned and recalled the time she actually met her brother in front of Touro. They walked and talked while her friends wrung their hands behind. (“If I’d have known…” joked her husband.)

It’s odd how confused people get when they see an otherwise aidel maidel yakking with a male in public. (1) – if she’s not the sort to talk to random guys, then she probably isn’t and (2) – if she was dead set on wrongdoing she wouldn’t be dumb enough to do it in public.

Remember the now-engaged Friend #6? Her brother wasn’t going to be around for the vort, so she and her chosson took him out for dinner one night. As she sat at the table with two males she observed aloud, “If I wasn’t engaged, this would look sooo bad.” Then, just because nothing could touch her now (yes! She’d escaped!), she slapped her brother high five right there in public. The middle aged couple at the next table hurriedly paid and left.

Reminds me of a conversation I had after returning home from a summer as a day camp counselor in a bungalow colony. For those who don’t know, teens employed in the Catskills without parental supervision are suspect of doing all sorts of terrible things.

“So how’d you spend your summer?” asked Mother’s Friend politely, while waiting for Mother to join her.

“I was up in the mountains,” I answered politely, while waiting for Mother to join her.

“What did you do?” asked MF without the faintest bit of interest.

“Chased boys, mostly,” I answered, wondering where Mother was.

“You what?” MF was paying attention now.

“Chased little boys around. I was a preschool counselor,” I said, practically dancing with impatience to be gone.

“Oh! Ha ha,” said MF, with an even tighter smile. “Bad4 was just telling me about her summer,” she said to Mother, who had finally arrived. “Really,” said Mother. And then I was gone.