As I mentioned before, I spent the past 14 weeks living out in Nowhere, USA for the purpose of advancing my education and bankroll in one efficient summer. Well, I think all single stay-at-home maidels ought to take a summer or two on their own. Because it also advances one’s housekeeping skills, giving one an extra entry or two for the ol’ shidduch resume. Why, I had to purchase half a trousseau to keep house out there. Now I can advertise myself as “Has can opener. Knows how to use it.” Or as an answer to “Is she geshikt?” I can smugly reply, “I’ve got my own thick-bottomed pot… which doubles as a frying pan, a mixing bowl, a storage space, and a deadly weapon in a pinch.”
Speaking of pots – those things are blasted expensive. There’s another thing you learn a bit about – the price of living. I experienced severe sticker shock the first time I set out to buy breakfast cereal. But more on that later.
Really I’ve learned the joys of housekeeping. Not just the pleasant surprise of cooking something and having it taste like what you were hoping, but even of cleaning. There is nothing, in my opinion, which can match the sheer beauty of a newly vacuumed carpet. You know – when it’s got that all-brushed-in-one-direction look and you know that it’s clean and vacuumed and wonderful? I can sit and stare at it all afternoon – at least until I drip some cookie crumbs on the surface or have to track across it for a bathroom break. (This should not be taken as representative of how I spent my evenings.)
But seriously, I think my next venture is going to be getting a large piece of carpet, vacuuming it, and selling it to the MoMA. Housewives will come from around the world to gaze upon its immaculate beauty and come away inspired to new heights in homemaking.
Ma, if you’re reading this, don’t get the wrong idea.
I confess that after 14 weeks alone, I still haven’t got the hang of laundry. It’s a good thing I started out with a relatively large wardrobe, that’s all I can say. The one thing I have learned is that if you want to get stuff clean, you shouldn’t try to do it in a laundromat. I only tried it once, but everything I put through that stainless steel piece of rubbish came out in exactly the same condition I put it in, only wetter. And I even remembered to add detergent that time! I suppose it’s a blessing nothing came out the worse for wear – that seems to only happen when I try to take out a stain. I can’t seem to remove the unwanted color without also removing a good deal of wanted color with it. In the end I decided to just be more careful about getting dirty.
There were more basic revelations about housekeeping as well. In the beginning of the summer, I bought a jar of mayonnaise, thinking there was no way I would possibly finish even half of it, and a bottle of dish liquid, wondering if it could possibly last out the summer. And by the end of three and a half months there was only a little left in the Hellmans, and only a little gone from the Dawn. Granted, the Dawn was a family-sized triple concentrated bottle, and granted my sponges were kind of small, and granted I was only dirtying dishes for one, but still. It’s inexplicable. Where did all the mayonnaise go?
My parents certainly got a good deal of mileage out of that conundrum. I think I’m going to have to put off dating for a few weeks until they can stop looking at the big bottle of soap I brought home and snickering. I can just see them greeting my Gentleman Caller at the door and asking, “Are you quite sure you want to go out with her? She might do windows, but she doesn’t do dishes. Or maybe she does them with mayonnaise. We’re not sure.”
But the real surprise, to me, was the cost of keeping my engine running. My personal engine, I mean, not my car’s. I kept track of all expenses throughout the summer (ProfK and Ezzie should be shepping), and as you can see from the pie chart, the cost of feeding me and the cost of feeding my compact is just about equal. And the stuff I get at the gas station has already been highly processed at considerable cost to make it most palatable for my dear little jalopy, whereas the stuff I got for me still required quite a bit of work to make it interesting. There’s something wrong with that equation.
Of course, when you add tolls and maintenance to the gas, you discover that actually, I’ve spent a pretty penny more on shuttling myself from place to place than in actually ensuring that I’m perky and productive once I get there. And there, you see, is the hidden price of living out of town.
OOTs will emphasize that real estate outside the five boroughs delivers more bang for your buck. This I can’t deny. But unless you’ve got at least two wheels attached to an engine, scientists estimate you’ll have only about 6 weeks with that real estate – unless you take to nibbling the grass on your expansive lawn. Because you can’t get anywhere by foot. And those cars are expensive. Even the cheap ones. I had to leave my little beauty’s purchase price off the chart or it would have swallowed more than half the pie. No kidding.
I could say a thing or two about the shopping experience as well, but that’s for a different post. My point was that it was all very educational and rather than count toward enough badforshidduchim points to earn me a bucket of rocky road, it ought be a gold star on my chart. Young, eligible, Brooklyn ladies ought to be popping open suitcases to follow suit as a way of proving their accomplishments in the home arena and increase their chances at landing a man. For that matter, the Washington Heights crowd ought to be in high demand just for their well-developed skills.
Life just doesn’t make sense.
Especially that mayo business. I just don’t get it.
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If you think Bad4 would do a good job and if you are a blogger, the process of nomination is simple:
1 – Register to attend the JBlogger Convention. You don’t have to attend in Israel – they livestream it online.
2 – Write a post on your blog explaining why you think I’d be the best blogger for the post (send me a link, please)
3 – fill out the nomination form. (edit: my email address is email@example.com)
Bloggers who have nominated me:
A real live Jedi warrior who, apparently, shidduch dates
Now, why me? Well, you’re all here, reading this blog. There must be a reason why you like it.
From my personal perspective, this is why I’d like to go:
I love Israel. I love Israelis. My ten months in seminary were, in many ways, the ten best months of my life. I traveled the land from tip to tip with one finger out, and met crowds of amazing people in unique ways. I naturally share my excitement best through the written word, and sent home regular, 14-page (or more) letters documenting the beauty of the land, the generosity of the people, and the new perspectives I discovered every day. I would love to have the opportunity to do it again.
I love people. I love meeting them. I love hearing about their lives, their thoughts, their goals, their hopes. I love tracing their thread as it twines through the tapestry of life, adding a unique color and pattern to the world. I would love to finally be permitted to share the advice, outlook, and unique contribution of the people I meet with someone besides my journal. A plane full of people is just… irresistible.
People seem to like reading what I write. I was surprised to hear that the neighbors would read my letters from Israel, but by now I’ve gotten used to the idea that a distant cousin has been amused by my description of a county fair. Or that some 500 people tune in to follow my shidduch musings every day. I notice the little things – the small but familiar things that create our experiences. And I enjoy writing about the things that strike me as intriguing, humorous, or profound.
And from the totally selfish department: I have two nieces and two nephews in Ramat Beit Shemesh, one of whom I’ve never met. And they’re adorable. And I want to play with them and read them books and take them to the park and give them baths and watch attentively while they show off, as children are wont to do. And oh yeah, seeing my brothers and sister-in-law (both olim, actually) would be nice too.
I’ve had my eyes on this ticket for a full year. Every time I think about it I get the trembly-excited-queasy feeling you get when you’re full of hope, but don’t want to be because you’re afraid it will never work out and then you’ll be crushed. A little like before a first date with a guy who sounds like a dream come true on paper. To attend this flight I would very happily miss the first week of class and skip out on the first Executive Board meeting of a student organization of which I’m President. And that’s more than I would do for any date.
There’s a confession that’s probably bad for shidduchim.
The only thing that isn’t packed yet is my laptop, so I’d like to take the opportunity to post about something a little different.
This summer I’ve been the closest I’ve been to Israel in six years.
In terms of distance, it’s actually the farthest I’ve been from Israel in six years. But like the whole seminary-in-Israel experience, it reminded me of why I love Jews so much.
We’re really lucky to belong to a minority group that takes care of its own. The world, from the PoV of a typical white atheist, is a pretty indifferent place. For summer interns, it’s downright lonely and alienated. I’ve heard of interns who spent weeks in motels because they couldn’t get a lease or hours per day at the gym because they couldn’t make any friends.
Not the case when you’re a Jewish intern, though. Housing took me all of fifteen minutes to arrange: five minutes on the Chabad website, and ten on the phone. Companionship? Another temporarily local intern who gravitated to the Chabad House. Not to mention a shul full of people solicitous for my well-being. Weekend getaways? One quiet status message on Google Chat netted me more Shabbos invitations than I could handle. Sadly, Shabbos only comes once a week, and there were only 14 Shabbosim in my summer. I couldn’t get to everyone. And this is though I was in a “city” so remote it doesn’t even fall under the heading of “out of town.”
You can’t help but love a people who so willingly grant you the consideration of a long-lost relative. It reminds me of what I loved so much about Israel: that family feeling is extended to everyone; you know you won’t ever find yourself completely lost, because you’re surrounded by concerned and benevolent relatives.
If life is a book, then the essay on my ten months in Israel finished with a great concluding paragraph. I’m linking to a description of it that I wrote, because I feel like it summarizes the warmth I felt both throughout my adventures in Israel and my summer out here.
I want to thank all of you, no matter where you are, because I know you deserve it. You all help create that warm and protected feeling for Jews wherever they go and in whatever situation they land. It’s this generosity and concern that makes our nation great and gives us the power to survive.
Here’s the question: How many dates did it take you to become jaded?
Do not answer if it never occured to you that you might be jaded.
If you do answer, please indicate if you are a man or a woman and also what “jaded” means to you.
Found on Luach.com (Thanks O!)
Personal Shopper for Chesed
If anyone knows of any girls that are in shidduchim that need help
picking out outfits, make up, hair, etc. Please feel free to email
me. Hashem gave me a sense of fashion and I would love to use it to
help girls in need. [Email address masked upon request]
Friend was frustrated. She was trying to play shadchan, but was being stymied because the guy she was recommending wasn’t perfect enough. Not that the family she was recommending the Guy to was so perfect – but they’d managed to keep their imperfections hidden with fair success, so nobody would think they were anything but the model family.
“They’re one of those people stuck in their little boxes who only want to marry people who are also stuck in their little boxes, except none of the people they’d want to marry would want to marry them for the same reason they don’t want to consider this guy – because he doesn’t fit their boxed idea of perfect,” Friend vented.
I never really believed these kind of people existed. For the longest time, I thought they were some kind of shidduch urban legend. Then I met someone who told me that her parents had basically made her pretend she didn’t exist until her older brother had gotten married, due to her not being entirely ok. She was brought out first for the wedding. Her sister-in-law was not enamored to discover the extra, imperfect sibling. It must have been great for the new relationship.
Such people, imho, should be put out of our misery. They seem unwilling to acknowledge that the paragon is impossible. There is no person who is entirely perfect, and even if someone could be, their nuclear family would likely have trouble passing muster. This is not an accident. That is – it’s not an accident unless you consider humanity itself to be an accident, which some angels may argue to be the case. But we’re not angels. Angels don’t date. They’re lucky that way. Indeed, it’s only because they sit up there on their fluffy clouds, away from all the messiness that is our lives that they can pass the time making snide comments at our expense. Fellow humans do not have that privilege. We’ve all got our shortcomings.
Thankfully, the ‘boxed’ people are the minority. But skeletons in closets are quite common. And since they’re a collective shortcoming, daters should not – in theory – be overwrought with shame concering their individual cases. But, then again, there’s always the fear that one’s own skeleton is in a more putrefacient state than anyone elses, and consequently a reluctance to take him out of the closet for some air.
There are schools of thought about when to introduce your date to Mr. Bones. Some claim never beyond the 4th date. Others argue that it depends on the issue, and certainly even the 7th is ok. I’m guessing these people are using a standard yeshivish shidduch-dating timeline wherein “7th date” = “ring in the works” and basically, they’re just saying you should probably get it out before the engagement. I would imagine, (but as someone with zero experience in the matter), that you wouldn’t want to get engaged under false premises, so that’s a good rule of thumb. The way I figure it, if you don’t trust each other enough to share deep dark secrets at that point, maybe you shouldn’t be taking lifelong vows. (But that’s just me, and I’ve been called all sorts of names for such opinions, most of them variations on “silly goose.”)
Of course, everything is relative. One friend never told her date that she’d had a broken engagement. Not because she was ashamed and trying to hide it – she just assumed he knew already. I mean, how can you miss that kind of fact in the pre-date background check?
It turned out his parents hadn’t bothered telling him, so as not to prejudice him. Smart, but… if she hadn’t found out by chance that he hadn’t a clue, she never would have clued him in. Luckily, they squeezed the DMC in before the proposal. He knew and liked her very much by that point, and gave her a ring anyway.
On the other end of the spectrum there’s the Friend whose friend (FoF) asked her, after she got engaged, “So, did you tell him about, y’know…?”
Friend looked at her blankly, until FoF elaborated on what she was talking about. It was some issue from her teen years which she hadn’t thought about in ages.
“It didn’t even occur to me that it needed telling. That was then. This is now. It’s just not an issue any more,” Friend explained. “No point in making a big deal about it.” Sure the skeleton was in the closet, but he was squashed in the corner behind some sweaters from two winters ago, all due for the charity bag during Pesach cleaning, and in all that time his bones had started disintegrating.
Well if you’re going to whip a skeleton out of the closet, you do want it to be a decent specimen, not an ancient crumbling one you unearthed just for the ceremony of it. Though it’s popular to inflate one’s problems and call them issues, maybe it’s better that the trend still hasn’t caught on in the shidduch world. Sometimes you just need to let a sleeping skeleton lie.
According to Forbes magazine, New York City is now the top city for singles to live in (0r around). For all of you who have been hanging around here for years as a single, you were ahead of the curve.
Miami falls at 29. Houston, 25, Pittsburgh 24. Baltimore, 21. Buffalo, 18. (Weird, no?) Cleveland, 14. Denver, 13. Philadelphia, 10. Los Angeles, 8. DC, 5. Seattle, 4. Boston, 2. The full list and an explanation of ranking is here.
Different animals are active in different seasons and times. In the fall, bear are out and about, eating everything that doesn’t move, and many things that do. Misquitoes get buzzy at dusk, when they take dives at your juicy arms and legs. Cicadas only come out for a snack on odd years. Bats prefer the mystique of the dark night. And everyone knows that yellow jackets are never nearly as present as during the one week of Sukkos.
You know, they say the reason cicadas do the whole odd-year cycle is because their predators run on even-year cycles, so by only coming alive on odd years, cicadas increase the chances that they’ll miss being around the same years as their predators.
Or something like that.
I think I’m on a cicada-predator cycle with shadchanim, though I couldn’t quite tell you who’s in which role. All I know is that there are predictable lulls and increases in the activity levels of my shadchanim, and they correspond almost exactly to my activity/availability. For example, during finals, they’ll be coming at me like bats at a misquito nightclub.
“Hey, I’ve got a great guy for you! Let me tell you all about him.”
“Sure. You don’t mind if I keep my differential equations notes open while you do?” Hey, if I can untangle DEs while having my soul mate described to me, the final should be a cinch.
“I have an amazing match. I’m already picking out my vort outfit. Can you go out tomorrow night?”
“We-ell… it is the night before the open-notes-open-book-open-laptop-open-phone-because-it-won’t-help-you-hahahaha! economics test…”
“Oh, you’re a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”
“Make time this Sunday. There’s this guy who’s going to be in town just for the weekend and I want you to go out.”
“That’s lovely. Do I get to decide if I want to go out, maybe?”
Though at the time I’m thinking “Please go away and let me study,” I’m also thinking, “Wow, this is great – for next week. Let’s just keep this momentum going through summer vacation! I could be engaged by next semester!”
But no sooner have I tossed my last looseleaf into the corner and listed my final textbook on half.com that all the shadchanim disappear into their dens like bears in November. And I can’t get anything more intelligible out of them than you could get out of a sleepy ursa who hasn’t yet had his spring coffee.
“Hey, remember me?” I’ll shout, waving my arms – so to speak. “I’m wide open! All summer is free! Let ‘em loose!”
“We’re on it,” they’ll yawn through a polite paw. And that’s the last I’ll hear about it. For… oh, three months. Hibernation season, apparently.
Just when I’m gearing up to take advantage of the last weeks of vacation and prepare for the new semester, the calls start rolling in. “Remember that guy I told you about in the beginning of summer? Well he’s only around another two weeks. Maybe you can meet this Sunday?”
“Nope. Trip with the girlfriends.”
“Take him along.”
“Can you visit this Shabbos? There’s a fellow I want you to meet.”
“Can’t you rearrange? He’s finishing his summer internship and going back to Denver.”
“I’ve been by you three times this summer (only because you kept mentioning this fellow) and you never produced the guy.”
It’s an odd thing, but you know that as soon as you pack your bags and book a flight, someone is going to call and ask if you can go out on the night you’re supposed to be passing over Nebraska at 500 mph.
“Well, it’s a long flight. Can he book the seat next to me?”
But then I hear about people dating all summer long (even getting engaged!), while I sit on my front porch on long summer evenings thinking that, when you’ve got nothing else to do, housekeeping is practically stimulating. So it’s just me. Or my friends, neighbors, relatives, and shadchanim. I’m the one who lucked out with the matchmakers who put their feet up when mine are down and ready to run – or walk in the park, cross nicely under a lounge table, or stand demurely before an exhibit. Where does everyone else get theirs?
Hey, anyone want to steal my identity? I’m in the market for a new one, with a different matchmaking rhymth. Post below if you think we’d make a compatible swap.
Congrats NEF #14! May you live happily ever after.
I tell ya – for someone who was convinced she was going to be a lifetime member of the BadforShidduchim club, she did alright. I don’t think she’s halfway through 22 yet.
We all know what 2,4,6,8,10 and 12 mean in terms of women’s sizes. But what sizes do men run, from “disgustingly skinny” to “walking blimp”?
I can’t even consume a half recipe of pancakes on my own. I need someone to eat the other half.
I spent a few days in the company of a pack of high school students. I was amazed by the gulf of experience between us. (Until now, I had thought it was just my sister’s friends who made me feel old.)
I turned 23. This definitely made me feel old. According to Andy Rooney, 23 is the last birthday that is any good, and I didn’t even celebrate with myself. I forgot. Anyway, 23 is is a big number. I’m still staggered by my age. I don’t think I ever imagined myself 23 and single. Then again, I doubt I imagined any of the other things about me at 23 either. One’s imagination is limited by their experiences, and when I was at the cusp of adulthood, graduating high school, I didn’t know half of what I currently know exists. (see last paragraph.) But, despite the differences between me then and me now, I still think 23 is a pretty impressive age. It’s cool. It’s not like 21, which is sooo fake ID, or 22 which is “Just graduated from being 21.” It’s 23!
With all that having been said, you can imagine my chagrin when I heard that someone called my high school assistant principal to find out about me for shidduchim. They must have gone through a bit of effort to get that number, since it’s definitely not one I provide. Mostly our interactions revolved around her not liking the sweatshirt I wore to school. (A subdued, wordless hoodie, before anyone lets their imagination loose.) So what were they thinking? What can a woman, who I haven’t seen in 6 years (excepting a brief 5 minute conversation one evening), say about me regarding my current marriageability?
Does anyone else find that… weird? Or am I missing something?
The bell curve is misleading. It makes it look like there’s a lot of space around the middle, while it gets tighter toward the sides. But when you look at differences between the people at the center and differences between people at the ends, the chart inverts. There are only so many ways to be average, but there are an infinite number of ways to be different.
Which is a problem for people who are extraordinary in any way. I’m not being flattering – I’m talking extraordinarily stupid as well as smart, bigoted, selfish, generous, ambitious, emotional, and all that stuff. Anything that’s a few standard deviations away from the mean. For many of these extraordinary traits, marriage requires an extraordinary person who can complement it – or at least not mind it (extraordinarily thick-skinned, perhaps). But not only are unusual types less common, they’re also less alike, meaning that finding the right person requires sifting through an awful lot of weirdos first.
That is to comfort anyone who feels like they keep getting redt freaks. And it’s also an excuse to make another pretty chart.
I have 2,496 hours of badforshidduchim behavior, at about 30 points per hour, that’s 74,880 points to consume. I think it’s time for a club meeting.
Sadly, most of the club has moved on
Except the club has experienced severe decimation in the past year or so, so we’re recruiting new members.
You must -
be single and unengaged
enjoy ice cream
It is a plus if you live in NYC, as all club meetings occur in ice cream parlors around the metropolitan area. If you are a potential member, please post below, including your email address in the form (it will not be shared) so we can contact you about the details. Unattached club members from the past will be contacted without the necessity of posting.
The generalities: the next meeting will be in the first week of September. Bring your points tally and an ice cream stipend.
Shidduchim leaves us all with many questions, some more essential than others. Here are a few I’ve received that I deem very fundamental, and would like to hear a general and respectful opinion on it. Well, whattaya think?
Question1: I recently received a girl’s shidduch resume and attached were two pictures, one of her with dirty blond hair and light hazel eyes and the other with black hair and dark brown eyes. Is it ok to ask the shaddach to tell the girl I would prefer if she appeared “dark?”
Question 2: In the aforementioned girl’s resume, it explicitly stated that said girl is a size two. Is this a sign of pretentiousness? Is it wrong to ask the girl’s friends if she is anorexic?
Question 3: If one said yes to this potential date a little too hastily and then shortly thereafter heard back from a reference some very negative information, can one rescind one’s yes?
Well, whattaya think?
Not to influence the masses, but I think the answer to question one is Absolutely! If she sent both pictures, it means both appearances are an option. Consider it a bonus – you can date two girls at once, or at least choose her appearance. If you get bored of dark later on, you can always switch to blond. You are lucky indeed to have been redt such a treasure.
To question two-A I would say, not necessarily. She may have been told that guys like girls who are a size two, and is simply preempting an anticipated question of yours. Possibly, it was stuck in by a parent or the shadchan for similar reasons and the girl doesn’t know anything about it. However (two-B), if it really is important, you can certainly ask if she has an eating disorder, though good luck getting an honest answer from anyone.
Question three: it’s probably rude. But, you might commute the sentence to a pre-date phone call during which you can ask about the negative information, and if it’s true, kindly tell her that it isn’t going to happen. Not recommended, but maybe better than wasting both your time.
A while ago I started a shidduch reading list. I think I may add The Lost Girl to the list, with the rating “u” for un-aidel.
I picked it up with great reservation; it was the next thing on my shelf, so I started cautiously. But it was impossible not to be swept up in the vigorous rush of poetry that is D.H. Lawrence’s writing style. I’ve never read anything quite like it before. And it’s scary how right he gets things. Some of them are just things that I’ve always thought – like: “Men can suck the heady juice of exalted self-importance from the bitter weed of failure… but to a woman, failure is… humiliation.” I’ve always thought that this was the answer to two FAQs in the business world: 1) why aren’t there more female CEOs and 2) how is it that CEOs can parachute from failure to failure, running successive companies into the ground, and never thinking that maybe they’re unfit for the job. The blithe self-confidence of men in the face of personal failure never ceases to astound me.
There was another paragraph that tickled me, because it seems like some things haven’t changed since 1920:
Why, in the name of all prosperity, should every class but the lowest in such a society hang over burdened with Dead Sea fruit of odd women, unmarried, unmarriageable women, called old maids? Why is it that every tradesman, every schoolmaster, every bank manager, and every clergyman produces one, two, three, or more old maids. Do the middle classes… give birth to more girls than boys? Or do the lower middle class men assiduously climb up or down in marriage, thus leaving their true partners stranded? Or are middle class women very squeamish in their choice of husbands?
The suggested explanations are almost the same as for our “shidduch crisis.”
Anyway, the reason it’s a shidduch novel is not so much because it’s about shidduchim (it’s not), as it’s about becoming an old maid. It’s a very dark and depression view of old maidhood, but a cursory glance at our society – particularly that notorious Upper West Side – suggests that D.H. Lawrence got something right. And of course, there are all those moments in the book when you wonder if he’s been sneaking peeks at your diary, which is even scarier, considering how the plot runs. I’m not finished yet, but as of page 261, I think it ought to be added to the reading list as a warning. I reserve complete judgement til the end, though.
A comment from Dante:
I recently started dating and would like to know what girl means when she says after a 2nd she had a good time, says u r a very nice guy but doesn’t see it having a potential to go for more than a 3rd date, and wants to stop now.
Is she basically saying she is not attracted to me? (I think off my self as an attractive guy, well at least I was told so by other girls.)
Are there any subtle cues when you can tell that the date isn’t going anywhere early on the dating process?
First off, I have to say I’m honored to have Dante commenting on my blog. I’m curious to know if hell is anything like how he imagined it when he was alive. I suspect not, since he’s asking about dating. That must be an extra ring he’s just learning about now.
So, what does it mean when someone says “You’re great, but this isn’t going anywhere”? I think that’s how most of my dates ended. We had a nice time but… it wasn’t gonna happen. Generally this was because there were some fundamental differences between our views and ways of life that didn’t inhibit us from enjoying each other’s company, but certainly prevented us from conceiving of a long-term relationship together.
Often, this is only apparent to one party. This is usually because one party has said something, perhaps waxed eloquent, on a very revealing subject. The other party encourages this discourse, but doesn’t argue the point. At the end of the date, the second party has learned an unforgivable fact about the first party, and decides it’s time to end the dating.
The first dating streak that I actually ended, instead of the guy ending it, was with a fellow who was so laid back he was practically horizontal. At age 27, he was still clutching the “learn ten years and then see” plan. Not that he was first masmid in yeshiva – or even tenth. He learned during seder, and afterward he didn’t. One didn’t get the impression that it set him on fire. He’d gotten a degree just to get his parents off his back, but it was in history, because he liked history, and he didn’t see why college should be more painful than it had to be. He was very pleasant to talk to, and I enjoyed every date immensely. But being slightly more keyed up, and admiring a bit of ambition in a man, I could see that talking was about as far as we could get before getting on each other’s nerves. Luckily, he never exerted himself to devise a more exciting date than lounges. So I was the only one with the perspective that “this won’t work.”
It is not customary to tell a date exactly why you aren’t interested if it’s not something that really needs to be changed. There are plenty of women who want or need lazy guys. Just not me. So there’s no reason to make him self conscious about it. Instead, you murmur something about no long-term potential and glide away.
It’s a bit hard on new daters who haven’t yet performed the move themselves. Just wait, Dante. One day you’ll be dating a girl and realize that, as fun as she is, you just couldn’t handle her in the long term. Until then, just accept that there was something there, and she’s doing you a favor.
…just a quick question – in what context are girls telling you that you’re attractive?!
BTS tagged me in a meme. I don’t officially do these things, but I happen to be procrastinating at the moment, and heck, why not? The fun thing about these memes is that they’re so context dependent. I just free associate without thinking too hard, and the list now is completely different than it would have been if I’d gotten tagged last week or last month.
Seven things I love:
Other people. This one is a new discovery, but I actually do enjoy being around people – both old friends and family, and new acquaintances.
Life. Because as you live you discover all sorts of new things about yourself and change and develop in many interesting and often positive ways. Also, without it I wouldn’t have any of the other six things I love.
Guitar playing. Can’t do it myself, but I love listening to it.
Macaroni and cheese. If you ever happen to go a month or two without cheese, you’ll know what I’m talking about. The same applies to sweet spring plums.
The United States of America. We live in a country that’s amazingly diverse (I met a walking, side-of-the-mouth drawling, Louisiana stereotype yesterday), and tolerant of our religious peccadilloes. God Bless America.
Independence. Maybe this is a drop like saying I love staying hydrated. But it’s one of those things that, the more I get of it, the more I realize how happy it makes me. Maybe it’s like drugs and I’m independence-dependent?
Nature. No matter how pretty man-made construction can be – and it can get gorgeous – somehow it never quite matches a stand of old growth forest with a stream trickling through.