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.