Thursday Link: Freezing Fertility

I admit, this article came as a bit of a shock. I always assumed, in a sort of vague way, that if I wasn’t married at 30 I’d freeze some eggs. I figured I’d do more research when the time came.

Well, it turns out that freezing eggs is over $9,000 a pop, and has at most a 50% chance of success. (Is that per egg or per batch, I wonder?) This information had on me the reverse effect the article intended.

But trot over and read it for yourself. And then let me know: would freezing your eggs be a relief or an additional stress?

 

HT to Kansasian

Thursday Link: Hey Parents – It Could Be So Much Worse!

I mean, so I’m single.

I can think of so many worse possibilities.

Friday Repost: Nuts Like Me

Are you weird because you’re single or single because you’re weird?

Either way, if you grow old and weird, here are some things you might want to keep in mind.

Thursday Link: There’s Nothing New on Earth

Whatever shtus we’ve got, someone out there has it worse, as demonstrated by this paper sent to me by Beth:

 

Marriage Institutions and Sibling Competition: Evidence from South Asia
Tom Vogl

NBER Working Paper No. 18319
Issued in August 2012
NBER Program(s):   CH   LS

Using data from South Asia, this paper examines how arranged marriage
cultivates rivalry among sisters. During marriage search, parents with
multiple daughters reduce the reservation quality for an older
daughter’s groom, rushing her marriage to allow sufficient time to
marry off her younger sisters. Relative to younger brothers, younger
sisters increase a girl’s marriage risk; relative to younger singleton
sisters, younger twin sisters have the same effect. These effects
intensify in marriage markets with lower sex ratios or greater
parental involvement in marriage arrangements. In contrast, older
sisters delay a girl’s marriage. Because girls leave school when they
marry and face limited earnings opportunities when they reach
adulthood, the number of sisters has well-being consequences over the
lifecycle. Younger sisters cause earlier school-leaving, lower
literacy, a match to a husband with less education and a less-skilled
occupation, and (marginally) lower adult economic status. Data from a
broader set of countries indicate that these cross-sister pressures on
marriage age are common throughout the developing world, although the
schooling costs vary by setting.

Chanukah Parties

There wasn’t a chance to publish this on Chanukah, so it went into the drafts and I forgot about it until now. So, here you are.

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There’s nothing like a family Chanukah party to remind you about how single you are.

It always starts the same way. Hug and kiss the grandmother while being asked when you will be arriving late due to husband and kids. Smile and say you hope sometime soon.

Then the cousins with the husbands and kids arrive. There are the usual greetings. “Hello, I haven’t seen you in so long, what are you up to these days?”

Don’t be fooled. They are not under the impression that you change your life every year. They just can’t remember what you were doing from last Chanukah party. If you’re feeling merciful, you give them the full rundown, “Still teaching pig-latin to orphans in sub-Saharan Africa.” If you’re feeling cruel, you just say, “Oh, same as last year.” Then wait for their smile to go forced as they ask “And that is what?”

You meet about 18 different cousins and have the identical conversation with each of them. You coo at their babies. You call them cute. You comment on how much or how little hair they have and how smiley they are/aren’t. This is the easy part. The hard part is when you sit down with your latkes and try to find yourself someone your age and single to talk to.

You look around.

You look around some more.

And then you realize that you are the last remaining grandchild within your decade to be unpaired.

So you resign yourself to finding a favorite cousin who happens to be married. But alas. It’s like the bodysnatchers got them. Your favorite cousin is no longer there.

Conversation is about getting children into preschool in Lakewood. It’s about where the cheapest, best-quality diapers are. If it’s a Lakewood table, they’ll cover who is receiving what benefits from the government and how they  deal with all the full-fat milk that food stamps requires them to buy. If it’s a Five Towns table, they’re most likely covering children’s clothing sales.

The most you can really contribute to these conversations is “I heard that…” or “My friend says…” You have conversation via proxy experience. If you really make an effort, it’s almost like an out-of-body experience. You are not you: you are the sum total of the related experiences of others that you have accumulated in your grey matter.  Thank God you have married friends on food stamps.

Well, sort of. I mean, obviously it would be better if they weren’t. But since the government is so generous, your friend benefits, and you benefit, and your table at the Chanukah party benefits because they don’t have that awkward single sitting there quietly swirling the sour cream on her plate. It’s like a great ripple of joy emanating from Washington D.C.

Uncle Sam’s Chanukah gelt.

Happy Holiday, all.

Daydream

“You know that awkward feeling you get when a woman is going on about the shidduch travails of her 21-year-old daughter, and you realize that you probably shouldn’t mention that you’re 25?”

Thus questioned a friend, caught in  a waiting room with a distressed mother.

“Yes,” I agreed. And immediately my mind drifted into snarky mode, and I started imagining what I might say in that situation, if I had been there, and if I wasn’t a sweet, mild-mannered aidel maidel.

I would lean forward, nodding gravely. I would agree that it’s very difficult for a girl to get a date. “And it only gets worse,” I’d assure her. “When I was 22, they started setting me up with all rejects–the guys who’d already been rejected by every girl in the tri-state area, and for good reason. It’s a boy’s world and a young girl’s world. Unless an older girl has connections, she can’t get a date with anyone less than neurotic.”

Or maybe I could take a more comforting tack. “It’s not so bad,” I could tell her. “I’m friends with many normal, beautiful, successful, well-adjusted women who are–” [lower my voice] “Thirty or even older who have great lives, even without husbands. They live together in crowded apartments and talk about dating at least once a day, but I don’t think too many of them cry themselves to sleep at night. Not too many. And they have such great careers. They go on exciting vacations. They bike and run for tzedakah organizations to get out their frustration. Sometimes, I think my married friends are secretly jealous. Who wants to be pregnant anyway? It looks so uncomfortable.”

Or I could be holy: “Maybe it’s just not meant to be. Not everyone has the same tafkid in life, you know. Maybe Hashem is saving her for something grander than marriage.”

Or I could…

My mind wanders, imagining the most obnoxious ways to comfort a woman who thinks single and 21 is a tragedy. But of course I could never say it. After all, she really believes it.

So, what do you tell someone who thinks her daughter is suffering at 21? What can you tell someone to convince them that life is not over if you’re still single at 23?

 

 

You Know You’re an Old Maid When…

Your high school class mailing list covers after-school programs for 4th-7th graders. (Wait, what? Does anyone really have a 4th grader?!)

 

Quote of the Weekend: Status Discrimination Starts Early

I’m used to my grandmother calling 70-year-old spinsters “girls,” but it’s a bit unnerving when the younger generation displays the same prejudices.

Conversation on the school playground:

Preschool teacher: “Shua, don’t push Joey on the swing. We have a rule: no kids pushing kids on swings. You could get hurt.”

Shua: “Then you can’t push anyone either. You’re a kid.”

Teacher: “Aw, that’s so nice. Do I really look that young?”

Shua: “No, but you’re not married, so you’re a kid.”

OUCH!

I’ve never liked this business of being a girl until marriage. I think it’s demeaning. (Some opinions claim that you’re still just a married girl until you have children. It just never ends, does it?)

Of course,  being single will be something to hide as long as you get discriminated against for it. Another teacher once told me that she gets her paychecks 6 months late, while the married teachers get theirs only 3 months late. It’s assumed that her need to pay rent or feed herself is not as urgent. To which I say: have you ever tried paying rent in a singles community? Kollel community basements can be pretty cheap by comparison.

Living in the Now?

Sometimes, I really hate feminism for making us all have to work, instead of staying home, cultivating hobbies, and making dinner every night.

Then, sometimes I really love it for making it possible for us to spend our time productively, even if we’re single.

It is a female habit to analyze every change in one’s life against the effect it will have on a hypothetical future family. How will I handle kids and this job? How will  I support a learner on this income? If I get electrolysis, will it all be undone by pregnancy hormones? If I get a job in finance, what will I do if my future husband wants to live in Kansas City? Do I really want to get promoted if it means working longer hours that will keep me from being at home when my kids get off the bus from school? And on and on.

A few days ago, eating tuna out of a can on a business trip in Manitoba, similar thoughts crossed my mind. And suddenly I realized: that’s a really stupid way to approach life.  Imagine if I’d done that 6 years ago. Where would I be right now? Definitely not in Manitoba. Imagine all the things I’d have missed out, hugging the metropolitan area, working part time, living a family-oriented life with no family to orient around.

You can always rearrange your career later, if necessary. Why downgrade ahead of time in anticipation of what might never be?

So, my resolution for the next six years is not to worry about the hypothetical. I’ll just live my life based on my current life, which is one situation I know I can count on being in (for nine months at least).

New Rule: Don’t Rely on Single Friends

I propose the 3-month rule for making plans with single friends. Beyond that, their priorities can get fuzzied by a gentleman caller who may have called more than the usual amount of times.

There was the time a few of us had loads of fun at the Rennaissance Faire, so we decided to go again next year. We all whipped out our phones and entered the appointment.

Well, within 9months one had gotten married and moved to Israel, and the other was married and in Connecticut.

Then there was the time I made a bet on a matter that could only be proven at the end of the year. Again, Friend and I marked it in our phones. But before I could win (or lose) the prized pie of pizza, the phone was lost down the drain and the owner had left to Israel, met a gentleman, married him, and moved to Houston.

So I probably shouldn’t have gotten excited about the idea of an annual kayaking trip with a NMF#17. Granted, you don’t often find nice Jewish girls willing to spend a week paddling down a river and camping in the woods. There is no reason to suppose that someone wouldn’t come along and snap up such a rare gem on sight. But I can’t help but feel a teeny drop let down about it.

When you get down to it, every single woman’s goal seems to be to get married. And she will prioritize that well above any of her other single friends. So, it’s important, when dealing with single friends, to never plan more than nine months out. This way, you will never get stood up, or jilted for a man.

Friday Repost: Operation Marry Off Bad4

I can finally remember this weekend without any signs of PTSD. It was the weekend my parents introduced me to nearly a dozen women in the hopes that one might marry me off. I don’t know where they get their hopes from, but I guess hope is not a bad thing. If it keeps them busy and happy, I’ll put up with it. But I’d rather factor polynomials in my head.

Pesach Special

Credit for this Pesach special goes to O and her sources. The puns are mine if unattributed.

The Pesach seder is a wonderful thing. The emphasis on text is strong, and the text doesn’t afford many opportunities to dwell on your marital status to the tune that, say, Ma Yedidus does, with its infamous  “Uleshadech Habanos” line. So you might have thought you’d be freed from having to hear about it.

Well, tis not so. Even Pesach has its segulos for getting married. The Washington Post reports:

Syrian Jews, however, see that wine very differently. The seder leader reciting the plagues empties the wine from a ceremonial cup into a vessel held by the oldest single woman at the seder table, in hopes of bringing her good luck in finding a husband, Sarina Roffe explained. …

She remembers the last time she was that young woman. “I was 18,” said Roffe, of Brooklyn, N.Y. By the time Passover rolled around the next year, she was engaged.

See? It works!

But just in case, here’s an afikomen present  you may want to request, courtesy of Macys:

And, to quote O: “It brings new meaning to wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

One heart, lightly used, please claim.

The Paragon

If you’ve dated long enough, you probably have one. I mean The Man Against Who All Others Are Measured. (For men, it’s The Woman Against Who All Others Are Measured. But we’ll take this from the female perspective because that’s the one with which I’m most familiar.)

It was probably when you were young. You went out with what seemed like just another man. Only you dated for longer than usual. Three dates turned into four turned into five turned into six. You really liked him. You enjoyed his company. You shared his values. You could really begin to see a life with him.

Then, out of nowhere, he dumped you. For murky reasons you couldn’t understand.  “I don’t think this will work.” Or,  “I’m not feeling that spark.” Or, “I’m not ready yet.”  Or, most inexplicable of all: “I just don’t think you’re the one.”

You were devastated. Bewildered. Hurt. And worst of all: wronged. Because he was wrong. You went so well together. You were meant for each other. The more time passes, the more convinced of this you become. His blemishes faded with time or acquired the glowing charm of eccentricity, while all his best traits shone with an ever stronger light. And nobody – absolutely nobody – measures up to him.

You go out with other men. Lots of other men. They’re not as tall, not as bright, not as nice, not as funny, not as handsome, not as successful, not as promising, not as courteous or gallant or sartorially sophisticated. You go out with them once, and then, just to be sure, you go out with them again. But no, they’re still not as tall, bright, nice, funny, handsome, successful, promising, courteous, gallant, or well-dressed. Truth is, they’re not even your type. Not what you’re looking for. You know what you’re looking for. Because once, long ago, you found it.

You let them walk you to your door. You let yourself in. You tramp slowly up to your room and slump on the edge of your bed. And you think about Him. The Paragon. The Man Against Who All Others Are Measured.

You tell yourself that one day he will realize his mistake. He’s been dating for a few years. You know this, because you keep tabs on him. Sometimes you even walk down his block. Just in case he’s looking. You know that soon it will dawn on him, and he’ll realize what he gave up. He’ll secretly ask someone to suggest that you go out again. You’ll say, “With him? We’ve been out already.” You’ll consider it, nonchalantly. And you’ll say, “Oh sure, why not.” And wedding bells will ring.

But until then… you kick off your heels and peel off your tights and go to sleep without taking your makeup off.

I Knew It! And Now Everyone Else Does Too

Courtesy of Relarela:

Travel the World, Meet New People, and…

Some are born shadchanim. Some achieve shadchanus. And some have shadchanus thrust upon them.

There are people who set up other people for a living. It is well known that they spend all their waking moments picking pink slips out of a pillbox hat and matching them to blue slips from a black Borsalino. There are also people who make a point of matching up singles. They meet singles and then meet other singles, and try to pair the two up. They create “shidduch circles” where they swap names with their friends. And so on.

And then…

And then there are the people who once set up their niece with the very nice boy down the block. Nothing much ever came of it, but the neighbor mentioned it to your aunt. And when your father said he was desperately seeking someone to set up his daughter, the aunt mentioned her to your father. And your father mentioned it to you, in the fashion of mentioning that strongly recommends follow-up action. And you, convinced that you’re going to see a professional shadchan of the first order, dress up, print crisp copies of your shidduch profile, and deposit yourself on her doorstep.

When does she sadly apologize for not being a shadchan? It varies. Sometimes it’s over the phone, so you have the option of discovering prior engagements that forces you to take an indeterminate rain check.

Sometimes it’s not until you ring her doorbell, and then you sit through the next half-hour being exceedingly engaging, because you know you’re wasting your time (and hers), but you don’t want it to show.

Sometimes it’s not until after the interview, when you realize that you just bared your soul to someone who was just being nice. She couldn’t bear to turn you away before. It wouldn’t have been nice to turn you down cold, considering your position as a rapidly aging single female. So she didn’t mention that she doesn’t actually know any boys (except the nice one down the block, but he’s married now to a very fine girl from Monsey). Now she can’t bear to see you leave with your hopes raised, so she breaks the news, very apologetically.

It’s not her fault. She just gave you an hour of her precious time too. And she’ll probably feel guilty for a whole day for not knowing who to set you up with. She might even call her friend to ask if her nephew is still single, only to find out that he’s learning at a yeshiva in Sydney for the next two years.

No, if anyone is responsible for the absurdity of the situation, it is that whole chain of people who are so desperate on your behalf that they conjure shadchanim out of the air where none exist, and pass them on, figuring, “It can’t hurt to meet people.”

Well, you can never tell.

It just takes the right person.

You need to be seen, you know.

Sometimes, chatting amiably to strange Women in Black, I wonder who failed to mention that the woman wasn’t actually a shadchan. Letsee… this woman is my mother’s, friend’s, friend’s… cousin? Sister-in-law? Something like that. So, it might have been the sister-in-law. Or the friend, or the other friend, or my mother.

I have to admire the number of links in the chain. Aren’t there only supposed to be three degrees of separation between orthodox Jews? And yet, here I am, discussing my  ideal mate with someone five degrees away; far enough for a serious game of broken telephone to take place.

My central nervous system generates glib answers to questions I’ve heard dozens of times before. Meanwhile, the back of my brain is wryly observing that in most aspects of my life, the opportunity to meet new people would be considered an exciting benefit. Really, why would this be any different?

I cross my ankles, sit up straighter, and try to enjoy the benefits of being single.

Quote of the Week: Never Tell a Woman Your Age

Her: I want to set you up with a guy…how old are you?

Me: Twenty-five.

Her: Well, he’s older too.

Me: [silently] Well thank you.

Reason to Get Married #9

My father came to visit my apartment. Within the space of a day and a half he bought and banged together a cabinet, hung a full-length mirror on my bedroom door (how did he know exactly what I needed?), washed all the dinner dishes, and took out the garbage several times (my garbage can is, shall we say, well matched in size to my kitchen). He also made suggestions for improvements that he didn’t have time to implement before leaving.

“You’re pretty handy to have around,” I said, admiring my reflection in the mirror.

“This is why people have husbands,” he hinted.

“Oh! Really? Now I get it. So where can I get one?”

Anyone? Because I still need a few more things done before this place is completely homey.

Thursday Links

Frumanista meets a wannabe Woman in Black. Or shall we say a Woman in Gray? The basic assumption of this woman was that a Single woman in possession of a wedding place card must be in want of a seat next to a shachan. I think the most appropriate response would have been to sit down, lean over, and whisper, “I don’t know anything about diets myself, but my friend over there is a nutritionist and personal trainer.”

Someone here would like you to support professional standards in Jewish publications. Notably, that of giving credit where it is due, even when the credit goes to someone non-Jewish on the shminternet.  Go there, send an email, bake the cookies, and mail me samples.

Repost: Why the Pre-Date Interview Should Be Instituted

While, in theory, I understand that people do rigorous research to defray the expenses of dating, sometimes it just gets ridiculous. Calling a dozen neighbors and formers teachers to ask questions they are not qualified to answer is just an effort in self-inflicting headaches. Also, it’s a pain in the neck for my friends, people who used to like me before they had to start answering detailed questions about my psyche.

Which is why I once petulantly suggested that mothers with tough questions ask me, instead of pestering my poor references. I still think that’s a good idea. If you’re going to be a difficult mother (or the mother of a difficult son, as was this case), just go straight to the source, and spare the collateral.

Of course, some questions are difficult to answer for more innate reasons…

Thursday Link: Relocate the Spinster Colony?

I never settled on a location for the spinster colony, but as Relarela points out, Israel looks very promising. The pull quotes here are:

…Although the procedures account for one of the country’s largest public health expenditures, the policy has drawn little debate or criticism, one of the few issues nearly all sectors of the typically fractious Israeli society seem to agree upon. There is even a growing pool of single religious women using in vitro fertilization, their efforts sanctioned by rabbis.

…“We are very sensitive here to the desire of people to have a family,” she said. “I think our country can be proud that a woman who wants to be a mother can try do so.”

 

Thursday Links: I’m More Mature Than You Are

“Nuh uh!”

“Yuh huh!”

The argument began over here, at SiBaW. The question: who is more mature, single people or married people?

Some people seem to think that maturity is like pregnancy: you either are or you aren’t. Or that it’s like the original Model T: if you have it, it must be of a specific form and color.

Maturity comes in different forms, and people can mature in different ways. There are people who are externally very strong, who do well in the workplace, and so on, but who are emotional midgets. There are people who emotionally very in tune with themselves and others, and who completely stink at life. Some people manage both. Some neither.

There are single people with organized lives and apartments, and married people who live in pig-sties.

There are people who can organize and coordinate extra-curricular activities for six children under the age of ten, and there are people who can organize and coordinate a product launch on six continents, and these are not always the same people. Some people can’t do either. Some can do both. Some of those who can do both aren’t married and don’t have their own children.

Even people who seem mature can have bouts of immaturity.  Parents, for example, can easily reduce their adult offspring to kvetchy, whiny creatures.

Of course, it’s all been said already in the comments, so go over and take a look.

…and yuh huh, even my mommy says so!

 

——-

The funnest part of this article (which I arrived at via Princess Lea) is this paragraph:

Not your usual private eye, Mr. Levin is a practicing Orthodox Jew, a member of the Bobov Hasidic sect and the founder of T.O.T. Private Investigation and Consulting, a New York-based company that specializes in Orthodox-related cases worldwide. The company, whose focus is uncommon — and perhaps unique in the United States — hires forensic experts, former homicide detectives, photographers and even pilots, mostly on a per-case basis. Its services range from investigations into international banks and Israeli investment companies to local background checks for prospective Shidduchim, or Orthodox marital arrangements.

Only a chossid would become a private eye… And apparently some people do go for the FBI background check.

Now I Know I’m Getting Old

Over the past two weeks of vacation I’ve bounced 7 babies, six of which belonged to friends (one was kinfauna). Of those six that belonged to friends, half were second children.

Grandmothers

Sometimes I wonder if it’s at all possible to give a grandmother nachas while still single. It’s kinda frustrating. All the responses below are taken almost verbatim, although, to be fair to my grandmothers, they were not all from the same person in a single conversation.

Grandmother: Bad4, it’s so nice to see you. Nu, what’s happening? When do we get to hear some nachas from you?

Me: Gran! I graduated!

Grandmother: That’s great. What’s next, a nice young man?

Me: With honors. And I won an award too.

Grandmother: I don’t understand why such a smart girl like you can’t seem to find a shidduch. Maybe you scare off the boys?

Me: I’m moving to Lakewood to be near my awesome job for an international corporation.

Grandmother: That’s good. I hear there’s a yeshiva there. Maybe you’ll meet someone. You know what they say: shoneh makom shoneh mazal.

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Seering Date

Discussing the idea of visiting rabbis and mekubalim as an aid for shidduchim. 

Also4: I am not interested in that stuff.

Me: Why? Don’t you want someone to look deep into your eyes and say, “Yep, it’s all your fault. You’re just plain rotten deep down”?

Also4: No, not really. Besides, I don’t need to go to a mekubal for that. I go on dates.

High and Dry: Life Without a Shower

The reason I posted about moving out is because of a link to a post that The Jolly Green Midget sent me. The post is about how married people get gifts and single people don’t. Just think about it: engagement party, wedding gift, baby shower… we spend on married people constantly. And what do single people get? A thank you card afterwards.  If we’re lucky.

The post, methinks, is a tad whiny. If you gave birth while single, I’m sure you’d be entitled to a baby shower. And seriously, a divorce party? How many of those are there, really? But I can’t help but wonder if the author doesn’t have a point about whole engagement party thing. Okay yeah: I’m jealous.

Because let’s face it: what can match the sheer joy of ripping the wrapping paper off a Kitchen Aide of your very own? Are single people never to experience this exhilaration?

And I was also thinking that if I’m going to move out, I need stuff. Even if you plan to camp in an empty apartment, you need a sleeping bag. Or an air mattress. You need something. When friends got married, we all chipped in to get them the things they needed to start their own household. But when single people move out their friends just offer to drop by and eat cake at the housewarming.

I tallied up the household goods I’ve accumulated over the years. I have:

One pot

One pan

One spatula

One bowl

Two knives

Two food-storage containers

One microwave

One iron

I’m not in such bad shape. With a pot and pan spatula and bowl and knife I can make and serve most things, in one form or another. The lack of fork and spoon might be an issue, so I’ll have to stick with finger food. I can reheat things in the microwave, make grill-cheese sandwiches with the iron, which I can also use to rearrange the creases in my shirts to more acceptable patterns. What more can a person need?

I can think of two things:

Potato kugel

A couch (or bed)

The couch nobody ever gets at a wedding shower. But the food processor with the vaunted kugel blade is a standard item for engaged folk. And yet, because I’m single, I’m doomed to face life alone, without even potato kugel as comfort, at least until my first paycheck comes in. (The furniture can wait ‘til the second paycheck. I do have my priorities straight, you know.)

Someone suggested I throw myself a goodbye party and hint that gifts are accepted. It’s a good idea, but yeuch. I can’t imagine throwing a party for gifts.  I had never even heard of the concept until my third annual Chanukah party, in 5^th grade, when the mother of a new kid in the class sent her along with a present. I was puzzled at first, then a little insulted. How dare her mother insinuate that I’d throw the party for material gain. As if. I still think the idea is obnoxious.

The truth is, I don’t actually want to schnorr off my friends. I just want to complain about the injustice of it all.

Now someone explain why I’m wrong.