Dating Is Not For Sissies

Sometimes, I talk to myself ... not in the schizophrenic way, of course.  It's just that sometimes, I have to sit down and pretend that I'm talking to someone else in order to learn how to be kind to myself.  Why is that?  Why is it so much easier to be gentler with others than with ourselves?

Well, either way, before bed, a short letter from me ... to me:

Hi beloved,

Today's been a hard one, I know.

He doesn't want you, I know.

And for so long, it's felt like nobody does ... well, no man, at least.

And even though you know that God is looking out for you, and even though You believe He has a plan, and even though you're trying to be strong and trust that this is just your time to wait, well, this whole dating world seems incredibly random and confusing, and ... not for the faint of heart.

Your friends and family have seen your pain and tried to help ease it as best they can.  They've said things like:

"The waiting is so hard, but when you finally meet the right one, it will all feel worth it."

"32 is still young!"

"I'm so sorry, friend."

"Maybe this is just part of dating, the bitter with the sweet."

Or, my personal favorite....

"He's a douche bag."

****

You are so blessed to have such amazing friends.  But, still, there's the wound.  Of not feeling wanted. Because every woman needs to feel wanted.  

I could tell you so many things.  I could tell you that it just takes one.  I could tell you that you are the 567th billion person to experience the pain of unrequited affection for another, so, welcome to the club of humanity.  I could tell you to get busy living, and he'll show up when you're not looking for him.  I could tell you that he WILL be worth it.  I could tell you so many things.

And they're probably all true.

But, tonight, I just want you to know that I love you.  And that I think you're worth it.  And that someday, he will too.

And don't forget to keep laughing,

me

A Love Letter

Dear Hubs,

I miss you. I know I don't know you yet. Funny, isn't it? Well, maybe funny isn't the right word. Strange, perhaps? That you can miss someone you don't know. That I can....

I wonder what you'll think of me writing you a letter like this once I know you and you can read it. Will you find it endearing that I wrote to you? I hope so.

Missing you happens at random moments, my love. The other day, it happened when I rolled over first thing in the morning, my mind not yet fully awake, and expected to roll onto the soft skin of your chest, but found a flat, empty mattress instead. Sometimes missing you is more practical. It's in the rattle of my car engine, in my wishing you were there to listen to it and to take my car to the shop if need-be. And sometimes missing you is simply a longing that sits in my chest and drapes itself across moments that should be happy, but are only partly so, because you aren't there to share them with me.

I am well, love. I don't want you to worry, not that you could anyway. Most days, I am content with my life. I have been so blessed. I have some of the best friends in the whole wide world; someday you will meet them. And I have about as devoted a set of parents as you could find and sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews. And the whole clan is woven into the fiber of my being, such that I never feel entirely alone.

But, still, at unexpected moments, I miss you.

I miss the children we'll have, the way their features will tell family histories and stories, miss the way I'll see a more beautiful reflection of myself in your eyes ... because love does that you know, makes you feel prettier. I miss the way I'll love you, a way that'll make me stronger and braver and more vulnerable all at once. I think I even miss your mannerisms, the way they'll feel so familiar, the way I'll learn to read the subtle intonations of your voice, so that I'll know whether you are having a good day or a bad one as soon as you say hello. And some days, what I miss the most, is that you'll want to hear my stories, is that I'll tell them to you and know that you care. I have lots of stories, my handsome man.

I know our love won't be perfect. Judging by what I know of marriage, I imagine there will be days where you don't like me much at all, and days where you irritate the heck out of me. I know you'll have quirks that'll bug me. And I've lived with myself long enough to know I'll have my fair share of traits that'll bug you too. Maybe we'll say things we don't mean in fights. Maybe we'll say things we do ... and that'll be even worse. Maybe you'll leave your dishes in the sink, no matter how many times I ask you to put them in the dishwasher. Maybe you'll get completely exasperated at my passive refusal to keep my checkbook balanced. Maybe one of us will get sick. Maybe some days, you won't want my stories. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But, still, I miss you. And I wonder why -- if it was Adam who was made first and had to wander around the earth, naming animals while he waited for Eve -- why I feel like I'm wandering the earth, naming things, growing things, learning things, while I wait for you. If I am substance of your very own ribs, the strong cage that protects your heart, where are you? And why do you keep me waiting?

Maybe you don't. Maybe it's I who's not ready. Or maybe life is more random than either of us would like. And maybe that doesn't mean that God is not good, that He doesn't have good gifts for us. I have known so many of His good gifts. I know He's not holding out on me. He's not like that. So, I wait.

But tonight, I miss you.

Signed with love,
Your wife

The Post I've Been "Post"poning.... (bad pun acknowledged)

Because it's about a date I went on with a barefoot bassist from Jerusalem. And the date was one of those sparkly moments in life. The kind that you know is real because your senses tell you so. You can taste the wine as it hits your lips, feel the band of your shoe pressed against toes, trace the texture of tablecloth with your fingertips. But, it's so darn sparkly that you're sort of in your head, watching it all, taken in by the shiny, and so you might think it never happened if your senses hadn't told you otherwise. It was that kind of moment. And trying to translate the sparkliness to you all seems, well, daunting.

But, nevertheless....

Well, there's good news and bad news. Generally, when someone offers me both, I pick the bad news first. Good news is too hard to enjoy while anticipating bad.

So, the bad news:

It was one date. He's back in Jerusalem. We probably won't ever see each other again. Probably.

There. Now, the good news:

the date.

I have become friends with this fabulous gal recently. And she invited my roomie and I to a concert in downtown LA. Well, actually, she came over to my house to shoot photos of me, pregnant. Sidenote: I am not pregnant. Breathe out. I had a beach ball belly. It's a whole other story that involves a new photography business she is starting, geared toward pregnant women who want exotic, Middle Eastern type photos. I posed for some pamphlet pics. I do have to say, however, that even having a deflated beach ball taped to my belly brought out these strong maternal instincts I never knew I had. I walked carefully, guarding my belly from objects that might injure it. Strange. Anyway, I digress....

OK, so she came over to shoot some photos. And after we'd finished, she invited us both to join her at a concert by a Jewish band, their first time in LA. She knew one of the band members.

I fought my homebody instinct (which pretty much always encourages me to stay home, do laundry, watch a movie, and walk my dog -- all of which are wonderful, important things to do, but may keep me single till I'm 40 if I'm not careful), and I went. :)

The concert was fabulous, different, a blend of Liturgy sung to rock, some in Hebrew, some in English. It was a whole new world being at that club. A new world full of people of devout faith, a faith I feel connected to, but don't know too much about. There were lots of men in yamakas, women in dresses, and prayer shawls hanging out from under t-shirts. These little tangible expressions of faith were lovely to me.

After the concert, I sat by myself waiting while my friends chatted and restroomed. And as I peered backstage, I saw the bassist's head, poking out from around the corner and made out his hand, index finger motioning in my direction, the "come here" motion. No ... he couldn't be talking to me. I looked away, searching out who he might be motioning to. Hmm. I stayed planted. A few minutes later, again, I peered backstage. Again. That head, that hand, "come here." I wondered who he's motioning to? Hmm. I stayed planted. Well, finally, after a good while had passed, I began to wonder what had become of my friend, who had gone backstage to visit with her friend from the band. And, fearing that perhaps I was supposed to meet her out back, I decided just to peer backstage to see if she was still there (almost everyone was now gone). Sure enough, she was backstage still, visiting. And that same man who had been motioning was now standing in the doorway.

"Hello."
"Hi."
"Did you enjoy the concert?" he asks,
"Yes. Very much."

Pause.

Smile.

"I know this might sound surprising," he says, "but I was thinking maybe we could get together and talk. I saw you, and there was something about your spirit. You look like a woman I could talk to. Does it seem OK to you that I would ask you out?"

And thus began our conversation, because how can you NOT talk to a man who is so bold and yet respectful at the same time?

And that's how I ended up the very next night on a date with a man named Jonathan -- a barefoot bassist from Jerusalem,(he was not barefoot on the date, by the way, only on the stage). That's how I ended up in the home of a Jewish family, listening to an Orthodox rabbi talk about the history of music -- from Tchaicovsky to Bob Dylan -- and the Torah. It's the reason I foolishly stuck out my hand to shake the hand of the father of the house -- a standard ritual of introduction in my book -- only to realize that in conservative Judaism, unmarried/unrelated men and women don't touch. That's how I ended up waiting for Jonathan, eating Kosher salmon, and talking pediatrics with a woman while my date went into the kitchen for evening prayer with the other men. It's the reason I drove around downtown LA for half an hour in search of a nice Kosher restaurant at 9:30 on a Sunday night. And it's why I ended up going instead to the home of a Hollywood movie producer (because that's where the band was staying) and eating leftovers from Saturday's Sabbath meal because we couldn't find a Kosher restaurant. It pretty much explains why I melted when my date tasted the wine before pouring a glass for me, saying, "Yes, this is good. I can serve this to you." And why I melted even more when he whispered a quick prayer in Hebrew before raising the glass to his lips. And why, when I asked him what he said, he repeated it slowly ... for me to follow, "Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-alam, ha-motzi lehem min ha-aretz,” why I went home and Wikipedia-ed the phrase and found out that it says simply, "Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.” Yep. That's why.

It was a good date. A great date, actually. A date with a tealight on a tablecloth, with thoughts exchanged, and silence permitted.

And after all was said and done, when I lay in my bed that night, pondering the new world I'd lived in (if even for a night), the new eyes I'd met, the new ways of thinking, I felt alive. And I thought back to a moment from earlier that evening, at the table, in the silence. He was just smiling at me, saying nothing. And then, a new word slipped from his lips, a word unfamiliar to my ears,

"L'Chaim," he said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

A long pause, and then his answer,

"To life."