I am often amazed by the resilience of hope. It seems unsquashable.
It was ten minutes to a date I didn’t want to go on. I’d just performed the Cinderella act with my dressy-casual best. My hair was rearranged, my face was tinted all the right shades in all the right places…
My watch said 6:30, but my watch was fast by an indeterminate amount. (Keeping it uncertain is the best way to get me out the door on time. Otherwise you just wind up thinking “well my watch is ten minutes fast so I have another ten minutes.”)
My clock said 6:30, but my clock was set from my watch. My electric toothbrush also said 6:30, for the same reason.
…Ah, my cell phone. 6:24. There’s time yet.
So I fidgeted. I sat down, then stood up, checked that my skirt wasn’t too creased. Went to the mirror to double check my hair. In this humidity, it was amazing it hadn’t frizzed up over the course of the day. And while I was at it, was my makeup still intact? I have a deplorable tendency to rub my eyes, which wreaks havoc on the mascara.
All was in order.
I checked the clocks again.
“This is absurd, Bad4,” I mocked myself. “The only reason you’re going on this date is because it’s easier than explaining why you don’t want to. You have nothing in common with him, you are uneasy with his background, you are sure that you’re not hashkafically compatible, and the result of this date is a foregone conclusion. And yet you’re still patting your hair into place like… well, like someone who is nervous about the outcome of the date. What’s up with you?”
“Because,” I answer in a sheepish voice, “Because that’s how all the stories start.”
And then I had to laugh.
Is there anything to be done with such a ridiculously stubborn phenomenon? Can’t anyone kill hope?