I reread this post with a half-smile. How naive it seems, to look around imaging the Women in Black carry notebooks and telescopes.
I once met a Woman in Black at a wedding. I don’t know what number MF it was. Her post has no official number on it. But she was a good friend, and I knocked up some of the best shtick to ever see the women’s side of the mechitza. Pardon my modesty.
Anyway, I was rescuing my stuff from a couple of little kids when a Woman in Black approached me. “Excuse me,” she said, “But do you know the blond girl in pink?”
I sure did. This clueless OOTer had showed up from Texas in pink, believe it or not. We’d driven to the wedding together.
“She dances so nicely. I think I know a boy for her.”
I caught my mouth gaping and closed it. She dances so nicely? The Texan Lass must be some kind of honeybee, able to dance a message about her ideal mate. No wonder I had never caught the eye of any Woman in Black. I just… danced.
I told the WiB as much as I knew about Texan Lass, which wasn’t much. It was only after she glided off that I realized something: the WiB hadn’t asked me anything about myself. Surely, as grand shtickmistress of the wedding, I had cornered just a small piece of spotlight, garnered a tiny piece of notice? Been, as they say, seen?
It seemed not. I hadn’t been seen at all. Well, as anything besides a fount of information about bright Texan Lassies.
Big Sister is watching. Just not watching me.
Maybe you should try wearing pink!
And dying your hair blond!
If someone would fail to notice my dancing ability I would be tempted to whip out my shiv.
“You wanna dance? Then let’s DANCE!”
Is the picture over here good enough?