Reverse Shidduch Crisis

I'm happy, sitting by the window, typing away. A little face peers into mine, mouths words I can't hear. I pull the headphones from my ears, and Matisyahu stops pounding.

"I want to sit here." She points at the seat next to mine. I look across the aisle, at where she'd been sitting quite comfortably with her sister. The older girl still sitting there looks back at me, and shrugs.

I pull the purse and coat into my lap, clear the space for the little girl. She clambers into it, settles in.

I slide the headphones back in, wake my IPod up from sleep mode. The girl climbs off her new seat, disappears into the back of the bus, comes back a moment later with two activity books.

"This one's mine, and this one's my sister's." She shows them to me proudly.

I turn off the music again. Someone has obviously decided she's my new friend.

She opens the books. Shows me which pictures she's colored in. I admire them. I offer her a pen, so she can do another puzzle. She pulls a line through a maze, looking up at me, for approval, every few minutes.

"Wow. You're so smart." I actually love little kids. Babies are quite boring, (sshhh, don’t tell anyone I said so), but once they begin to talk, they become fun. "You're drawing like such a big girl! How old are you?"

"I'm six." She says. She's called Rivky. She learns in the Gur school. I tell her that I have a niece her age, also in Kitah Aleph. She's disappointed to hear my niece go to a different school.

We carry on chatting for a while. She disappears again, returns with stickers. We debate where it's best to stick them.

Then I notice Rivky's big sister, standing in the aisle. "What's your name?" she asks me. The questions carry on. "How many kids do you have?"

"Oh, I'm not married." I pull at my hair, show where it's connected to my scalp. People have been thinking I'm married all evening, I'm used to it by now. I've given up explaining that this afternoon, before the engagement party, I just stepped out of the shower and let my hair dry the way it is. That it's the Shaitels Machers fault for copying my messy look this year.

The "big" sister (She's already ten and a half, she's in fourth grade) goes back to her mother. Then she comes back again.

"Where do you live? How old are you? What Chassidut are you?"

I explain that I'm not Chassidic. I ask them if they speak Yiddish, and they laugh at me. "I learned Yiddish in school!" I tell them. They want to hear more.

Chani (I know her name too by now) keeps coming and going, couriering information between me and her mother.

Finally she comes out with it. "My mother asks if you want to marry a Gur Chassid?"
I gulp. Try not to laugh. "Oh. Well I'm not Chasidic you see, so I don't think I'll marry someone Chsasidic. But tell her I say thank you anyway."

At first I'm flattered. I resolve to sit next to a Litvish first grader next time. Who knows where that could lead? Maybe she'll have a big brother? An uncle would do too. Maybe this is why Chareidi girls aren't allowed to drive?

Then I remember that Gur has a Shidduch Crisis going on too, just like we have. Only it's a reverse Shidduch Crisis. There are too many single boys, looking for wives.
You see, not many girls want to marry into the Gur Chassidut. Not even the Gur Girls themselves. They often look for husbands who belong to other Chassiduts.

The reason? Gur has a lot of rules, a whole lot of rules, about marriage. There are the rules on exactly how it's permitable to have marital relations. You know those recommendations in the Kitzur Shulchan Aruch? Well by them that's law. Along with a lot of other restrictions. Which I won't go into here, it being a Frum blog and all.

There are other restrictions too, not only for the bedroom. One that I heard is that a husband and wife aren't allowed to call each other by their first name. (If I'm wrong, please correct me)

So now Gur is looking for wives for their boys. Women willing to take on the all the restrictions. And they are having a hard time finding them.

Which leads me to my brilliant idea. A solution to both Shidduch crises. Let's marry our girls to their boys! If a girl in NY is feeling desparate, ship her over here, to the local Gur community! Simple, yet brilliant. I wonder why nobody else has thought of it yet.

Raising Illiterates

This was going to be a "real" blog post. Because it's true. It happened last week, and I've been wanting to write about it ever since. And I do have an issue with Chareidi society raising illiterates. But I'm in novel-writing-mode, so this is what came out. There's no reason I can't make the same point in fiction, right?

"So how can I send a document?" Bracha asked.

Karen sighed. There was so much to explain. "You see the paper clip? And underneath it 'attach'? It's called attaching when you add a document to an email."

Michael, sitting over at the next desk, sniggered loudly. Karen swiveled around and glared at him. It wasn't Bracha's fault, that she knew none of this. She was a product of the system.

Bracha sat on a folding chair beside her, eyes glued to the computer screen. "What's an inbox?"

Bracha had called in a panic. "All the tourist sites want to send me emails. They won't mail the brochures. They won't even agree to fax the details. And the principal wants this trip organized by Friday! Listen Karen, I need your help"
And so, an hour later, here she was, sitting in the office, soaking in what a lifetime of education had denied her.

Karen couldn't really blame Michael for laughing at them. The conversation must sound funny. As she explained to Bracha how to open a Gmail account, as her words echoed in the room, they sounded ridiculous. As if she were teaching a child perhaps, or an 80 year old. No, not even that. Children were on Facebook nowadays, and grandparents on Twitter.

"But how will you use your account? You don't have internet access anywhere. You can’t come here every day." It was one thing teaching Bracha how to use email. Karen couldn't have her turning up repeatedly. The bosses would complain.

"Well the secretary has internet on her computer. She'll let me use it."

"So why couldn't she have dealt with this?" Karen was annoyed. The interruption was using up precious work hours. Hours she'd have to make up later.

"Oh she doesn't know how to use it either. I don't know why Rabbi Horowitz bothered to have it installed."

Bracha was a computer teacher at the local Bais Yaacov elementary school. She'd studied with Karen in Seminary. Together they'd been taught programming languages and office programs. They'd done homework, and given practice lessons. But one thing they'd never been allowed near was the World Wide Web. There was a ban on using the internet in the Chareidi world. It wasn't lifted even for those who were supposed to work in the field.

Karen still remembered her first job interview. The face of the man interviewing her, when she didn't know what MSDN was, hadn't heard of any of the popular programming websites. She hadn't gotten that job. She'd learned her lesson by the next one. Going to the local library, and browsing site after site, in preparation.

Nowadays Karen was pro. Despite her long skirts, and prim button down shirts, despite being automatically labeled as religious, and hence obviously backwards, she was "Tech savvy", she was part of the modern world. She would prove it. She could Google with the best of them. She wrote a technical blog. She was on all the online social networks.

She had joined a dating website too, but that was a secret. That was one thing nobody was allowed to know.

Her old friends, the girls she'd gone to school with, the girls she'd grown up with, none of them could understand this new language she was speaking, new universe she was spending time in. Except for the others who'd also rebelled against teaching, who'd also sought to join the secular work force. One by one they too joined her online. Together they formed networks, and chatted, and posted photos; forgetting the Rabbis' warnings, ignoring the bans.

But Bracha, good pious Bracha, never had. She'd listened to what she was taught, followed the instructions given by society's leaders. She'd managed fine in her teaching job, typing and printing and mailing, travelling to libraries in the center of the country when she needed to do research.

Yet now the school Bracha taught in, the Bais Yaacov school, wanted her to organize a trip for them. And for that she needed to use the sinful Internet. So here she was, coming to learn what she'd been told was wrong, having no choice. Sitting clueless and sounding ludicrous, which basically she was. Because she was this century's equivalent of illiterate. She 'd been purposely raised to be ignorant.

The Matchmaker Diaries: Ending the Shidduch Crisis

Every time she saw the long lines of religious girls, waiting at the cash tills of Mamilla with their fathers' credit cards and their mothers' cheque books, Shulamit felt her heart scrunch up. The travesty, the absolute travesty, paying good money, a lot of it, for clothes they wouldn't be able to wear. Well at least not straight away, and by the time they'd finished with the bits of fabric, by the time they'd let down hems and sewn up slits and added buttons and safety pins to raise the necklines, it would all be spoiled. She knew it would. It always was. She felt so sorry for them. Fashion wasn't meant to be meddled with.

Really, if you thought about it, there was a lot that could be done with Orthodox fashion. Women's bodies had to be covered, from top to toe, and that was a large canvas (a very large canvas indeed after seven pregnancies had left their mark), a blank canvas just waiting for her.

When she had a store, it wouldn't sell items blindly imitating the catwalk. She wouldn't copy standard patterns, and then add material indiscriminately in order to deem it modest. When she had a store, it would be stocked with the fashion she designed. Fashion for the Orthodox woman.

Shulamit was following her dream. It wasn't a standard dream, for a frum girl. Wasn't a typical one. She couldn't train for it in seminary, in the same way the other girls learned teaching and special Ed. But it was just as idealistic, just as holy. She knew her store would make the world a better place. She'd be helping the next generation of Frum girls, same as if she were teaching in a Bais Yaacov. She'd be helping them dress well, look good. Maybe she could even end the Shidduch Crisis. In her outfits girls would be so irresistible that no Yeshiva guy would be able to turn them down.

So she had to venture out, into a very different world, which was new to her. Well the truth was she could have learned sewing in one of the girls-only colleges popping up. They promised to teach design too. That's what her teachers had encouraged, when they'd realized she wasn't going to join the ranks of teachers. She'd tried, really she had. She'd gone to the group of white washed rooms, tucked into a dingy building off Rabbi Akiva street in Bnai Brak. She'd sat patiently through a lesson on creativity, fighting off the urge to close her eyes, which grew heavier, as the lecturer, a middle aged woman in a bushy Shaitel, droned on, saying nothing very creative at all.

At the end of that lesson, she stood up, thanked the teacher, waved a good bye to the students, and left.

To make a dream come true wasn't easy. She needed the best. She got on the bus to Tel Aviv, and rode straight to Betzalel. Betzalel was the top art academy in Israel. That's where she wanted to study fashion design. But it was too late. The year had already started. They told her to mail forms in May, to apply for the next year.

Shulamit would wait. Meanwhile she had enough to keep herself busy. After all, she had another profession too. She was a matchmaker. She'd focus on that. Not only fashion could end the Shidduch crisis, she'd give it a good try with her trusty notebook too.

The Matchmaker Diaries: A Game Plan

Karen was always in control. That's the way she was, the way she'd been all her life.
She was the one who organized the hikes in summer. She was the one who passed round a sandwich bag to collect money for teachers' presents at the end of the year. (Then she'd gone out and bought the presents, that same day. And written the poems to go with them.)

Karen had a mantra. "If you want a thing done properly, do it yourself." Every time she tried to let go, tried to leave things for someone else to take care of, it went wrong. Other people forgot, and delayed, and got mixed up. Not Karen. She learned it was quicker and easier not to rely on anyone else, if she wanted something done right.

First she worked out what to do, and then she did it. And then she dispensed advice, How-Tos for every step of the way. From organizing a hike in the Golan, to winning a treasured Madricha position in sleep-away camp. From picking the best Seminary to finding colleges that would give credits for their near worthless Seminary diplomas two years later.

Once it was time to join the grown up world, she was the first in her graduating class to prepare a resume. Her details were already sitting in the inboxes of all the prospective employers on JobNet, together with a customized cover letter, when one by one her friends traipsed over, and she helped them prepare resumes too.

She knew it all, because she'd done it all first. She had her life worked out.

Karen knew how she'd go about finding a husband, if it was up to her. The same way she went about everything else. She'd research current dating trends. She'd go to the right places, dress the right way, say the right things. She knew she'd find a guy. The right guy. And quickly.

But for the first time in her life, Karen had to let go. Her hands were tied. Bound behind her back by the rules society had invented half a century before.

There was no such thing as speaking to a man directly. She couldn't even hope to catch the eye of a potential mate. Someone else had to be in the middle. Someone else had to arrange it. So she needed help. Had to ask for help. Because that was the system. And there was nothing she could do about it.

In the beginning it wasn't too bad. She thought she could handle it. First she went to the local Jewish bookstore. She came home with all the books her teacher in the Shalom Bayit class in Seminary had recommended; "How to find your Zivug", "The Shadchan Speaks", "Dating made easy", "Splitting the sea". She read them all. She soaked up the advice of rabbis and matchmakers and "dating mentors". She prepared for what lay ahead. Knowledge was power.

Then she prepared a list. Lists were the key. She carefully wrote down every family friend and relative who moved in the right circles, who could know of a suitable boy. She added her teachers from high school through Seminary, because teachers were good at making matches.

Chanukkah was the best time of year to start dating, that was common wisdom. Winter meant Shabbos went out early, with the stars in the sky by five, and so Motzai Shabbos could be used for dates. Also, she'd settled into a comfortable routine in the new job. She was ready for the next stage.

On the first night of Chanukkah, after candle lighting, Karen presented her parents with the list. It was time to train them.

The Matchmaker Diaires: At the Bus Stop

The woman's black hair was parted; two smooth waves pulled back tightly from her brow, disappearing under a scarf. The scarf was white, with silver threads running through it. It matched her white skirt and woolen coat. Only her boots, black patent leather, spoiled the snowy effect. She looked like a china doll, petite and perfect. She leaned against the man, who stood at right angles to her. She rested her hips on his, curved into him.

He wore a woolen hat, pulled down low. He looked so obviously irreligious. Shulamit had no need to see his head underneath it, she was sure there was no Kippah there. Stubble grazed his chin, jeans were slung low on his hips. The archetypical secular Israel, confident and fit after army training. And attractive, she admitted that silently to herself.

They stood on the other side of the bus stop. They didn't kiss. The woman rubbed her smooth cheek against his rough one. He moved his arm up, around, to cradle her.
Shulamit was fascinated, horrified. She couldn't look away. When the man's eyes swept the area, checking he wasn't being watched, she made her glaze blank, indifferent, pretended to be staring at the busy street.

The woman was married, religious and married. The head covering showed that. The man was secular. The man and woman were not, could not, be married to each other. Yet they looked right together, they slotted together, fitted together. Like a couple, a couple having a relationship. They were touching. It was like the scenes in the movies she had stopped watching, had given up as sinful.

The woman couldn’t be very religious, Shulamit reassured herself. After all, her skirt didn't attempt to reach her knees. And it was slit at the back, the slit reaching up to her coat, possibly beyond that. No truly pious woman would dress that way.

And what's to say the woman was still married? Once married didn't mean always married. Maybe she was divorced. Divorced women had to cover their hair too.
That would mean it wasn't an affair, wasn't adultery. "It was just," Shulamit stumbled to find the right words, "just a relationship that broke the rules".

She felt slightly better. Despite herself she turned round again. The man was brushing his cheek back against the woman's, tenderly. Shulamit stifled the feelings of envy. Shulamit was studying, pursuing the career she wanted. She didn't want to get married yet. She didn't want a relationship, didn't need a man. She was fine on her own.

The bus came, and she got on it. The couple still stood there, at the bus stop. She carried on watching them through the window, until the bus drove away.

Against Principles

"I don't like people with principles", a boy once told me.

I stopped and stared at him.

"Because they put their principles before everything else. They refuse to step out of their comfort zone, to stretch. People should come first, and that takes flexibility."

"But everyone has principles," I said, "at least, I hope they do. Like in my family, my father stressed honesty, I hope I'm carrying that on."

"That's different. That's Halachah. Think about it. There's Torah, Halachah, we should be acting according to that. Not be adding things on."

"Oh. I see." I said. But I didn't really see. It took a few months, with his words buzzing in the back of my mind, before I grasped the meaning.

Today I remembered him. Today I understood.

A Rabbi refuses to give me the name of one of his Talmidim, until he's met me.
"We can discuss it on the phone." I said. "I'll tell you everything you'd like to know."

"No, I have to meet you. That's my Shitah."

"You can speak to your friend Rabbi C., he knows me well. Or you can speak to your Talmid, Yitzchak Greenberg, I dated him for a while, he’ll remember me."

"No. This is the way I do things. I won't set up my Talmidim with girls before I've met them. On principle."

I also feel strongly about preferring to date single guys, and not middle aged married men and women. I even wrote about it. I didn't pull the "principle" card on him though. I'd just be told I'm stubborn and picky and not doing my Hishtadlus.

I gave up, said goodbye and hung up.

I've begun to notice when principles appear.

When something is wrong, it's simple. "I don't do that.", "I can't do that.", "I don't feel that's right", "Sorry, but that's breaking Halachah."

And when something is right, it's even simpler. Often there's not even a need for justification. Most good things people are happy to accept without explanation.

Principles are used for behavior that is outside what the Torah teaches us, outside what is obviously correct. Principles are used when we can’t find a better argument.

The Matchmaker Diaries: After the Ball is Over

The tiles were cold against her bare feet. Karen dangled the shoe straps from one hand, fished around in her purse with the other. The key had to be in there somewhere. A powder compact fell out, crashed onto the floor below. She bent down, opened the marble plastic. Clay colored lumps lay scattered inside, useless now. She snapped the case shut again, shoved it back into the overcrowded jumble. She'd need to buy a new one before the next date. What a waste. Trust it to break now.

Ah, there was the sliver of purple, peeping out between tissues and a folding umbrella. She pulled at it, tugged until the key ring dislodged from the mess.
With a twist and a push, she was inside. She dumped the purse and coat and keys, all in a pile on the bench by the phone. The shoes, she dropped onto the carpet by the dining room table. She'd taken them off in the elevator. Beauty was pain.

Karen went straight to the first bedroom off the hallway, still wallpapered with pink rosebuds, a remainder from the girly phase she'd had in second grade. She didn't stop to turn on the lights, or pick up the clothes that lay scattered everywhere. It was always a rush before, always a mess left behind. But she ignored it, pressed the computer's big rubber button. When a soft whirring filled the silence, when flashing icons appeared on the monitor coming back to life, she paused, to catch a breath, to settle in.

Tights came off. Fuzzy bunny slippers went on bare feet. Lenses came out, glasses went on instead. She loosened the earrings and necklace and hair clips. She rubbed at her eyes, smudging mascara and eyeliner carefully applied a few hours before. When she looked in the mirror, black panda eyes stared back, out of a pale face. She reached behind, under the shiny fabric of her top, to undo the bra's clasp, and wriggled arms out of sleeves to slip it off. That was better.

She settled into the swivel chair. Squatted on it cross legged, reached out fingers to the keyboard. The web browser was still opening. She didn't move, just gazed at the screen until the homepage had finished loading.

There were messages. One was from that guy who wouldn't take no as an answer. She'd have to be blunter with him, explain again how unsuitable a match they were. On second thought maybe she would ignore him, not answer at all. Maybe that way he'd get the message.

The second was from "Avraham". He'd replied at last. She crossed her fingers, said the only chapter of Tehillim she knew off by heart, chapter 121, and clicked on his message, to open it. He sounded so perfect, so right.

It was a rejection, couched in kinder words. Karen opened up his profile again, compared the "what he's looking for" paragraph with the description she'd written of herself. She couldn't find any contradictions. She wondered what put him off her. Was it worth another try?

The third message was from someone new. She hadn't noticed him on the site before. She'd read that, before going to bed. She hovered the mouse over the envelope, was about to click on it, when the door swung open.

"Sweetheart, how was your date?"

The Matchmaker Diaries: Prologue

She looks nervous. Pretty, but nervous. I wouldn't be caught dead in a suit, and I told her as much last night, when she laid it out on the bed, but it does make her look older somehow. Grown up.

If only she wouldn't keep latching and unlatching her hands together, and would stop with the lip biting. At this rate that shiny lipgloss will be worn right off, before he even arrives.
Is that him? A tall, black suited figure is approaching. I can't make out the face beneath the hat. My angle is wrong. The postcard stand spins around, as I push past it. I catch it from toppling over, just in time.

"Can I help you?" The woman behind the counter does not seem very pleased with me. I've already spent as long as humanly possibly, inspecting every souvenir in the store. I obviously am not about to make a purchase. She's losing patience. I had better leave.

Standing in the doorway, I check out the scene. He's saying something to her. He must be the one. Neither of them is looking in my direction. I make a dash for the opposite doorway.

Inside H.Stern, I lean against the wall, relieved. I haven't been spotted, I'm pretty sure of that. Outside I can see them still talking. He's gesturing now, pointing at a corner of the lobby. She follows him over to a pair of sofas, perches on the edge of one, lays down the shiny purse. He sits at right angles to her. He takes off the black hat, places it carefully on a vacant chair.

A saleswoman approaches me. I avoid her gaze, peer intently at a nearby display cabinet. The jewels inside glitter back at me. I straighten up, trying to look like I regularly go shopping for diamonds, like a potential customer. I don't want to be thrown out of the store before I've completed my mission. It's too risky to stand outside, in the open and wide exposed lobby. Bracha would never forgive me if she caught me spying on them.

Well, spying is too harsh a word. Seeing a job through to its end, that's what I call it. I mean, I set them up. I did all the phoning and persuading. I want to see the pieces fall into place.

Good. They are smiling now. Laughing. I think this is going to work. Time to move on.

The problem with trying to write a novel, is that I miss the feedback. What's been getting me to write is you guys. The comments, the responses, you're great! And I miss it when I plod through my chapters. So I thought I'd give this a try. Introducing my new serial story: "The Matchmaker Diaries". Please, please, nudge me and nag me and beg me for the next installment. Maybe this way I'll actually write it!

Seventy Paths

I almost missed the message. Then I noticed the little envelope in the corner of my cell phone's screen.

"I'm engaged!!!" the SMS shrieks out at me.

She asks me to give the news to her high school teacher, who happens to be a relative of mine. That night I make the call. It starts off pretty typically.

"Guess what? Rachel is engaged!"
"Mazal tov! That's so exciting!"
I can hear the genuine pleasure in her voice. Rachel is one of her favorite students.
"Tell me all about it? Who's the boy?"
"Well, he's in the army."

Silence.

I take a deep breath, and plow on.

"He's an officer. Something quite high up. I don't remember the initials, 'samech' something or other."
"I see."
"It's such a cute story how the Shidduch was made. See she didn't think it would work out, but she thought 'why not', and gave it a try, and voila!'

Frozen replies from the other side of the line. The esteemed Mechaneches suddenly sounds eager to end the conversation.

I could have been imagining it. I don't think I was.

Prize student, pride of the Bais Yaacov system, betrays the establishment by marrying, not only a not-in-Yeshiva boy, not merely a working boy, but a soldier! What can be worse than that?

I think where our society went wrong, is by focusing on negatives instead of positives.

Torah learning is a good value, an important ideal. So is making a living for your family, and contributing to society. So is defending the country, and we all owe those who do it a huge debt of gratitude. You can decide that Torah outweighs the others, decide to focus on that. That's your decision. But please, let it be about "learning Torah'. Don't let it be about "Not serving in the army", and "Not working".

I read the stories and letters-to-the-editor, about fathers running from Gemach to loan shark to bank. Or scheming up improbable get rich quick plans. Or flying abroad to go door to door collecting. Somehow it's OK for a man to spend all his waking hours in a chase to cover debts, rather than learning in the Bais Medrash. It's socially acceptable. As long as he's not working. Chas VeChalilah. Good chareidi men don't work.

And a boy can be doing many things, some of them not so savory. Society can deal with it. The true red line is the army. Shedding the black and white for khaki green. If he does, then he can still be wearing the black kippah, but it's not enough . He's crossed over to the other side.

"Learn Torah" has somehow morphed into "Don't do anything else".

That's how a nice Jewish girl can get engaged to a nice Jewish boy, and instead of being happy for her, some people, out there, can be upset.

Not only Chareidi Society negates other approaches. I mix in many worlds. I hear the remarks about 'parasites'. The disapproval of Torah scholars who 'have their heads in the clouds'.

So many ideals are good and right and true. Let's focus on our goals, whatever they may be, instead of negating the other ones.

Is Attraction Important?

You think it is, I think it is, but aren't you curious what the Rabbis of Israel have to say about it?

We are sitting on the sloping hill, alone aside for the trees and the moon. I've convinced The-Yeshiva-Guy-I-Didn't-Marry to sit down on the grass with me, instead of on the customary bench. It's a new sensation, sitting on the grass with a boy. I cross my knees, pull my skirt down to cover them. He sprawls out on his side, a few inches from me. This is so much more relaxed than benches and chairs. It's the first time I've ever done it, on a date. A part of me whispers that that's a rather sad fact.

"Are you attracted to me?" I ask. There's a certain light missing from his eyes, when he looks at me. He doesn't look at me the way the boy before him did. I'm worried. I don't know what they've been telling them in Yeshiva, about feelings coming later, and all that. I know one thing, I don't want that to be the case with my husband. The question is blunt, but I don't care. I'm passed the beating around the bush stage.

Like a true Yeshiva student, he avoids the question. "Is attraction even important in a marriage? Rabbi C.K. say's it isn't."

Rabi C.K. being the venerated Gadol Hador.

Before I can open my mouth to protest, he continues. He is quick. One of the things I like about him.

"Of course, you know what Rabbi S. says."

Rabbi S. being an esteemed Rosh Yeshiva.

"Rabbi S. says attraction is very important."

"Well, I agree with Rabbi S." That sounds better than saying I disagree with Rabbi C.K. I've already learned what not to say about the Rabbis he admires.

"I thought you would. He also says: The reason Rabbi C.K. can say that attraction isn't important is because to Rabbi C.K. the couples come only before they get married, for his blessings. To Rabbi S. they come after the wedding, with their Shalom Bayis problems. "

I'm beginning to like the sound of Rabbi S. Not the kind of line I'd fit with his image.

"And what do you think?"

A dog comes bounding over, breaks the moment. My Yeshiva guy stands up and brushes the clinging greenery from his pants. I follow suit. We make our way towards the park's exit.

The relationship doesn't last much longer. I tell him I want a husband whose eyes will light up, when he sees me. I hold by Rabbi S.

The Weatherman

Naming my last date is easy. He's the Weather man.

Now there are a lot of stereotypes out there about a certain nation being obsessed with the weather. I'm an open minded girl. I don't believe in stigmas.

Except that in this case they were spot on accurate.

"Did you enjoy the weather today? So nice and sunny. With only a light breeze. I loved the weather today. Such a lovely day! Wouldn't it be great if every day was like that? I don't see why the weather has to change every day. I wish every day the weather would be the same. Don't you sometimes wonder why the weather has to change?"

"Well it is giving us something to talk about …"

Let's just say he didn't get the hint. I'm still trying to figure out how he dumped me for our "Hashkafa being incompatible". What Hashkafa exactly? The evening reminded me of the advice given in My Fair Lady. When in doubt, stick to the weather, your family and your health.

Until he shows up

Remind me never to listen to a cab driver again. Telling me I'm better of walking. Huh! I mean, I'm sure he meant well, but I'm freezing. This may be my favorite coat, but it's not very warm. Everywhere seems so much further in heels. I hope I won't be too tall in them. Why do all the men in the street have to be Arab? Aren’t there any Jews in Jerusalem? And why do they think I'll understand what they are saying to me in Arabic? I hope I'm not being stupid, walking here alone. Was that a whistle?

Oh good the guard is waving me through. He's not making me open my bag. Lucky, I don't know how I'd get it closed again, if he did. It's not easy fitting a science book into an evening purse. I suppose I don't look very suspicious. Maybe he recognizes me from the last time I was here. It was only a week ago, after all. I'm a regular, you could say.

Please, please, that can't be him. No. God, listen to this prayer at least, don't let that be him. The trick is to avoid eye contact. That's the main thing. Let him be for someone else. It can't be him, right? Surely they would have told us about the beard? I'm going to ignore him. Circle round and make a quick dash to the bathrooms.

Is that what I look like? What a mess. Don't know why books romanticize the windswept look. It's not a success on me. Now where's my lipgloss? Umbrella, book, Mp3, cellphone, ID tag, keys, tissues, disk on key. Disk on key? There's top secret information on that. It's not supposed to leave the office. What’s it doing here? Oh well, hope I'm not abducted. Ah, there's the tube. Nothing like a dab of Clinique.

Whoa. She's tall. I feel so short all of a sudden. Is that blonde natural? Nice jacket. Didn't know non religious women still wore suits. At least not in Israel. Hey. One second. Belle Du Jour, last night. Only hookers wear designer suits, it said on the blog. Hmm, is she one? Oh it's a tweed jcket. Probably not then. Maybe a guest from abroad. Come to think of it I'm wearing a suit too. Wonder what they'd make of me abroad, wandering around hotels dressed up and unescorted. I wish the Amazon goddess hadn't come in. I felt much prettier before.

Nine on the dot. I'd better venture back into the ring.

Phew. Beard man is gone.

Now this one looks cute. Perfect, in fact. But why isn't he smiling? And now he's walking away.Sigh. Guess it's not him.

Another scan of the territory. I see a black suit. Black hat. Walking next to a woman in a Shaitel. Right.

Who's that guy? He looks chilled. Is that a white Kippah? Weird. Who wear's white Kippahs nowadays? Oh it's knitted. White knitted, with a thin blue border. Makes more sense. But he can't be for me. Yeah there's a girl in a long skirt. That fits. Is that a sweatshirt? How does she get off so easy?

Where can he be? Does he think this is fun for me?

Stop. Think positive. Music. Classical music. Coming from the piano over there. It sounds pretty. Tonight this scene reminds me of a ballet. Yeah that's it. Not a primitive mating ritual. A ballet. Men in suits, women in dresses. Grouped on either side of the stage. A flurry as they meet each other in the centre. Pairs pull back to the sides. Perfect symmetry as they align, to fill rows of parallel sofas. Man opposite woman. He removes his hat. She lays down her purse. He speaks. She nods. Waiters glide over, then withdraw. Now she speaks. He answers. He looks down, twiddles his fingers, clears his throat. She looks down, plays with her necklace. Pattern repeated in every set of seats. Matching outfits, matching body language, identical conversations too, probably. Great choreography.

Where is he?

Hmm, good opportunity to check out the menu. I've always wanted to do that. Coffee is the same price as a soft drink? OK. That's it. I'm ordering a coffee tonight. Correct, coffee is more intimate. Soft drinks are for dates one and two, hot drinks are only done on the third date onwards. But tough. Too bad. I've drunk enough coca colas to last me a life time.

Still not here? Should I call home, and have them call the rabbi, and the rabbi call him? What a performance. I'll give it another few minutes.

Wait. I see a white and yellow blur through the glass. A taxi has drawn up outside. Is that a black suited figure? The door is swiveling round. Someone is stepping out. Tall and broad shouldered. I'll stand up. His back is to me. Now he's turning. Oops. He must be sixty if he's a day. Better sit down again.

Do I dare go into H.Stern? Don't want to have him thinking I'm too into diamonds. Catching me gazing starry eyed into a display cabinet is not the way to get off on the right foot. I guess I'll risk it. There's nothing else to do here.

Stop. On the right. Yeshiva guy. Approaching me. Saying my name.

I knew I shouldn't have worn heels.

Is Blogging Tznius?

Or more to the point, is my blog Tznius? Got some not-so-positive feedback recently. Here's my response.

Being a Bais Yaacov girl means many things. Most of them are good. I made a conscious decision to study in the places I did, to belong to the society I do. I don't regret it.

But along with the schooling came a pattern. The pattern of Chareidi society at large, perhaps. What not to say, where not to go.

When I was in high school it was non Jewish music, movies, boys. These subjects were taboo. Good girls didn't even think of them, at least not aloud.

Even now, in the discussions of "kids going off the derech" flourishing in the Frum press, so many theories are produced, for what drives teenage boys and girls to hang out together. What they never mention is hormones. Awakening needs, wants, temptations. Teenage boys want to be with girls, teenage girls want to be with boys. Sometimes it's as simple as that.

Some kids do it. Do the forbidden, the banned. They are branded as at risk.
They cross the red lines. Other's don't. The kids who behave according the rules are embraced. These are the top Bais Yaacov girls, the prize Yeshiva students. No one ever thinks that they too may be battling temptation every day.

I used to envy my friends in the more modern schools. Not because they were allowed to do more than me, but because in their their schools they spoke about it, openly. They could, and did, question, discuss, seek advice, all without fearing disgrace.

When we grew up not much changed. As least not for those of us still single. Now it's the Shidduch- crises, not the Kids-at-risk crises. Again the debates as to causes and symptoms.

But again so much is left unsaid, unacknowledged. It's not only about being left behind, while peers move on to the next stage in life. It's not only about being in a strange limbo, with no defined place in society. It's not only about burn out, and fears for the future.

There is another factor too. We are Frum, we do follow Halachah, we do work on Emunah and Bitachon and want to build true Torah homes. But we are also human beings, mature men and women, struggling with desires, some of them physical, battling with pulls in different directions, every day.

I'd like my blog to reflect this, the different facets that together make up being a Frum single girl in the 21st century, with all that that entails.

Some of you don't feel my blog is Tznius, or appropriate. My apologies.

Mixed Messages

"The surest way to tell the prostitute walking into a hotel is to look for the lady in the designer suit. Fact."

From Belle Du Jour. Diary of a London Call girl.

Now where does that leave us Shidduch Maidels?

Better stick to the Marriott, girls, and not venture into the Ritz-Calrton, at least not in your best black suit. Don't want to give some gentlemen the wrong impression.

Living in a Bubble

"Raise your hands if it's a challenge for you to look your husband in the eyes."

I almost raise mine. It's sure a challenge for me.

I've looked hundreds of men in the eyes. Deeply, soulfully, admiringly. I've even resorted to fluttering my eyelashes at them. But I'm yet to look my husband in the eyes. I wonder what color eyes he has, and when I'll get to see them.

Oh, that's not what she means. She's talking about relationships with our husbands, about Shalom Bayis. I guess that's what this Shiur is going to be about.

A warning would have been nice. I was looking for some uplifting spirituality, not a reminder of how lacking I am on my own.

I hope my mother, sitting next to me, is not upset. I hope she's not thinking of how much she'd give to look into her husband's eyes. An opportunity she's not had since he died.

I wonder how many other widows, divorcees there are in the room. I catch the eye of a single woman in her fifties. She's managing to mask the pain. Or perhaps she doesn't mind. Perhaps by now she's grown numb, grown used to it. Used to never ending references to things she is missing.

We all live in bubbles, bubbles of our own making. We have a tendency to think that where we are holding, so is everyone else.

Please, remember the others.

Before you speak of children, remember the childless.
Before you speak of spouses, remember the single, the widowed, the divorced.
Before you speak of families, remember those who are alone.

It can work in the other direction too. From sagas designed to pull at heartstrings, to casual episodes to spice up a talk. Melodramatic tales are casually dropped. References that can drive some listeners to tears.

I've been in the corridor, outside, when women have stood up and left Shiurim in the middle, able to take no more. I've seen their faces as they've leaned against the wall, outside, shaking, fighting back the memories that the careless mentions brought back to them.

So before you tell of sickness and disease, of hospital wards and intensive care units, think of the terminally ill.
Before you tell of death, of deathbeds and burials, think of those who recently lost a loved one.

Tact, sensitivity, consideration, these should be values in our world too.

Pause, stop a moment, remember there are people in the audience for whom this can be a sensitive topic, choose your words with care. There are some places where even angels fear to tread, and rightly so.