I’m busy. Yes, very busy. There are roads to run, chowders to cook, and game nights to plan.
The phenomenon described in this rather excellent post (if I say so myself) has not decreased with my advanced age. Rather, it’s been aggravated. I now get frequently greeted by “So what’s doing with you?” which roughly translates to “Any interesting guys lately?”
For the record, O Friends of Mine, I am no more pleased by your singlemindedness now than I was back at the ripe old age of 21. I am a girl of steady tastes. And my taste in conversation has not developed overly much. I still prefer conversation about alpacas over conversation about men. Non-existent men. Or even existent men, who are, quite frankly, none of your business.
Now pardon me, I have to search up an alpaca farm nearby.
I’ve never understood the appeal of yichus. Yes, it’s nice to have exciting forbears. Don’t get me wrong. Telling family stories is lots of fun.
But waving your antecedents like a flag and trumping them as a sign of your superiority? Puh-leeze!
To quote from this post:
…[it’s] like I have nothing special to offer myself, so we need to drag the dead out of their graves to help.
…I might as well overachieve at it.
~ Quote from this post in which a friend informs me that the adjectives that describe me best are actually not compliments.
Sometimes I feel like a lucky charm. You merely have to come in contact with me to get engaged. It makes up for my complete lack of dating success. At least I know that I’m bringing joy to all my dates and friends.
Here’s one about the guys I date getting engaged.
And I feel like posting this one just because it covers the weddings of NMF #6 and NMF #7, and I think they’d appreciate the retrospective from this point in their marriages.
You know that odd feeling you get when everyone seems to have got the memo except you? When the memo is “One – two – three – get engaged!” that feeling is odd indeed.
I celebrated this MF’s engagement by reviewing all the badforshidduchim points she’d accumulated at the time to highlight that she got married anyway. So, young ladies, for God’s sake give yourself a break and enjoy yourself a little bit.
I confess to it: I have a little bit of a pride issue. I’m a little bit biased, but I happen to think that I’m really not bad. Yes, yes, I have my faults, but they’re part of my charm, aren’t they? (After all, really, what is less charming than someone who is perfect?)
So being rejected is like a punch in the gut. It means that someone out there disagrees with my self-assessment. How sickening is that?
Which is why it’s nice to be reminded that it’s really nothing personal. Well, actually it is personal, but not that personal. Or anyway, not usually that personal…
What is in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Everyone quotes this line at face value. The irony is that in Shakespeare, it’s a practice in spitting in the wind. Capulet is a name that does matter, at least in Verona town. In modern terms, we know that the placebo group will insist that the flower not called a rose doesn’t smell as sweet.
Which is why we always do make a fuss about what things are called. Cows and steaks and such not being considered good references for our young men and women.
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.