Being Married Isn't Everything

I had an epiphany yesterday. 

I had been thinking of couples I had been hearing of, the young marrieds who have not been having a seamless transition into wedded-hood. Perhaps one has a temper, or their personalities clash. Then throw in a colicky baby into the mix, bringing the stress index ever higher. 

It was then I realized something. Fast forward ten, or twenty, or thirty years. If these couples stay together, and have not managed to make their experience a better one, then they will see their marriages as having one perk: Status. 

The status to tell other singles, "That's what you are expecting in a marriage? Dream on." 

Perhaps they will get annoyed. "What, exactly, are you holding out for?" 

Then: "If you are expecting fireworks, puh-leez." 

And, underneath their scorn, lies a fear that the optimistic singles might get what they hope for: a spouse that they mesh with.

Let's be honest, not all marriages are happy or healthy, and not all of these unions are dissolved. And yet, singles are expected to accept any marrieds advice because Hey! We're married! Unlike you, losers! 

Yes, they are married. But if I just wanted to be married, I could have done that years ago. But I wanted to be married to someone I didn't fantasize about suffocating with a pillow while he slept. 

There is so much conflicting advice floating around, but that's because, and I will repeat this yet again, people are different. If a certain piece of advice speaks to you, then it's right for you. But it won't necessarily wow your single friend. 

It is a blessing to be married. It is a greater blessing to be married to the person that works for you.

Free To Be Me

I've already plowed through "My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend," although due to baby-induced sleep deprivation, I've forgotten pretty much most of it. I vaguely recall that it was highly enjoyable. 

Rebecca Bloom, the star and co-creator, came out with a memoir, and she was duly interviewed. This paragraph spoke to me. 

“I’ve never been able to be anyone but myself,” Bloom said in a video chat. “And when I’ve very vociferously attempted to not be myself — when I would come to school and be like, ‘I’ve had a makeover!’ — I’ve never been able to hide well. The conclusion I’ve come to in the past 10 years is, well, I might as well just lean hard into who I am.”

Yuuuuuuuuuup. 

In real (as opposed to the blogosphere) life, few people get me. Less than few comprehended me in school. The harder I would try to be likable, I was avoided even more. So, if the results are going to be the same, I might as well be me. 

The heilaga Brené speaks of the difference between "fitting in" and "belonging." In my view, it's still "belonging" even if you are on your own, in your own space. The price of fighting my own nature and personality was too high, and I was unwilling to pay it. 

Perhaps some thought (no, some definitely thought) that if I had been more willing to be "typical" (whatever that means) I would have married earlier, but . . . that's a negatory. Han and I aren't "atypical," we just like to abide to our own truths, like moisturizers, funky clothing, and lemon desserts (that's just a few of the things we have in common). 

As long as you are nice to others, there is nothing wrong with embracing yourself. I've become quite fond of goofy energy. 

The Chanukah Story

Do you really know the story of Chanukah? 

I certainly don't. It was told in school in a few sentences, not much in depth. I carried away so much misinformation that I made a fool of myself on a college paper by referring to "the Greek Empire." My professor left a notation in red ink that there was no Greek empire. 

Huh? 

Then I learned that the Jews were not dominated by Greek-Greeks, but by the Hellenized Seleucid Empire. Ooooooh. 

That's why, if you don't want to look stupid, like I did, I recommend listening to Dean Henry Abramson on the Chanukah story. Very educational.

Will You Still Need Me, Will You Still Feed Me

I was reading this interview with Chris Rock, and paused towards the end in thought: 

Who do you hang with these days? Who’s your peer group?

I hang with Dave [Chappelle]. I hang with my kids. I hang with Nelson George. There’s not a lot of hanging in the Covid world. The better question is, who do you FaceTime with?

So who do you FaceTime with?

The other day I realized I’ve never met an elderly person that was cared for by their friends. Every elderly person I know that’s got any trouble is cared for by a spouse or a child. Sometimes they have like five kids but only one helps. Where are your friends? Your friends are probably not going to be there when it really counts. [Laughs.] When my dad was dying in the hospital, where were his friends? My grandmother, where were her friends? Don’t get me wrong, you get sick in your 20s, your friends will come to the hospital. It’s an adventure. [Laughs.] You get sick in your 60s, they farm it out. “You go Wednesday and I’ll go Sunday.”

Enjoy them while you have them. But if you think your friends are your long-term solution to loneliness, you’re an idiot.

On one side of my family, there are a group of cousins who are fiercely devoted to each other. No one else in the world matters except for their siblings and their families. They doted on their mother in her final days, never leaving her alone, even when she was in the nursing home for a year. 

These cousins are no longer youngsters. During this horrific year, a number of them have passed. One has sat shiva three times this year. 

They are of the age when friends (if they had them) would no longer be showing up to assist. For them, from the beginning, it was only family; at the end, there is only family. 

"Your flesh and blood," Ma would chastise when us kids would fight. "How can you hurt your own flesh and blood?" 

Friendships are nice, as Rock says. They have their place. But when I see others cast off their family because of "friends," that these friends are now their everything, I wonder how tight that bond is, how long it can last. 

Rock is 55, old enough to contemplate his mortality and wonder what is truly important in life. Obviously if a family member is toxic it is best to keep one's distance, but one cannot deny the connection family has, whereas friendships rarely last into the caregiving stage. 

Han and I joke to Ben that he should please not shove us into a cut-rate nursing home when the time comes. Because it'll be his problem when we are old and creaky (but with excellent skin, because of the creams we use now), and no one else, no matter how "close," will want to take it on. 

My Dear Miranda

Is anyone here familiar with Miranda? Oh, you must watch it. It's on Hulu, and I'm finally giving it the time it so richly deserves. 

Miranda Hart, for those who need assistance, also played Chummy on Call the Midwife (she was excellent!) 

Miranda's character on her comedy is a goofy 35-year-old who tends to walk into things, the despair of her poshy-washy mother who just wants her married. In one episode, she gets a voicemail about a funeral but the message doesn't say who died. She shows up, and is relieved to see her mother is there.

Miranda: Mum? Thank goodness, I've been trying to get hold of you. Why didn't you call? 

Mum: I didn't want you here. I was going to tell everyone you're in prison—less embarrassing than having to admit you're still single. 

This is a common enough scene in Miranda, so, yes, goyim also get single-shamed. 

The joy of Miranda is that she is always completely and unapologetically herself, and even though she may drool at a passing gorgeous man, she can't even pretend to be something she isn't. If she does, her goofiness simply intensifies. 

Her private school friends cruelly call her "Queen Kong," but recent friends get her zaniness and roll with it. 

Maybe because I'm a fellow Amazon, but I find her relatable, even though her antics are definitely out of my comfort zone. 

As more time passes, I wonder why worth is so often applied to marital status. Han was telling me of a shidduch he had made when he was single, and how shadchanus was grudgingly provided quite a long time past the wedding. He felt as though if he had been married, he would have been taken more seriously. 

Maybe that's why my shidduch idea had been blown off (even though they did marry later, with a different official shadchan). 

Miranda's mother finds her ridiculous, but it seems her major concern is her singlehood. 

Sounds familiar. 

Culturally Yours, Mine, & Ours

As we know, we are not the only peoples on earth who utilize shadchanim. South Asians—Indians and Pakistanis, for instance—also dig them. 

Considering how my experiences with shadchanim were less than ideal (they tended to set me up with people who were not remotely on point, then demanded to know why I was saying no), I wondered if their matchmakers are better. Then I thought of the reality show "Indian Matchmaking," where it looked like the same six people were on rotation, so I guess not. 

From reading this article, there is little differentiation in the Indian world to being set up by a matchmaker or a family friend—a blind date is a blind date, like by us. The lovely woman who set me up with Han is a friend of my relative and a machanteneste somewhere on his side.

The interviewees in the article make a point to clarify that while the term "love marriage" is applied to couples who met on their own, it's still the same love story for those who were introduced through a matchmaker. It's not necessarily any less romantic as it would be if they met cute. Like by us, too.

In the same issue of Sunday Styles, there is a Modern Love story by Pakistani woman who grew up in the US. After seeing Bend It Like Beckham, she believed it would be possible for her to end up with a white man, and preferred not to date men of the same ethnicity. 

She moved to Pakistan for work, where it wasn't exactly easy to meet white men; when she became friendly with a fellow Pakistani, she didn't initially see him at all in a romantic light. 

I couldn’t put my finger on what finally attracted me to him. For starters, the brown culture signaling of my imagined biracial relationship wasn’t necessary because we were both brown. Gradually I realized that meant I didn’t have to do my exhausting, race-conscious performance either, the self-deprecating jokes I would mutter about terrorism (or whatever stereotype came to me in the moment), the reflexive ironic shield I felt I needed as the one Pakistani in the crowd. He understood without me having to say anything.

When I was dating, I was hoping for someone who came from a somewhat similar background. When I would go out with guys who were more American in upbringing, I would carefully edit my language lest a Yiddish word or phrase would slip out. If one did, they would look at me in annoyance. 

With Han, I don't have to do that. Especially since he understands Yiddish better than I do, and appreciates my fondness for quoting grandparents (he does the same).

After months of dating, I saw how much space that performance had taken up in my previous relationships: Without it, I was vulnerable and prone. With the weight of constant posturing suddenly lifted, I felt an intimacy I could never achieve with the not-brown guys. Ali and I are married now, and it’s the most comfortable I have ever felt with another human being.

What’s funny is that, in writing this story, I realize I have penned the exact type of propaganda immigrant mothers peddle to keep their daughters in the culture. Before Ali, my mother was fond of telling me stories of some distant friend or relative who married a white man and then divorced, only to find happiness once they remarried a Desi.

This isn’t that, but it’s not not that either. I’m not attracted to my husband because he’s brown, but I also know we wouldn’t have the relationship we have if he weren’t. That’s not to say we’re so similar; if anything, the fact that he grew up in Pakistan while I spent my youth in the Midwest separates us more than most of my past relationships. But what we share in common — an unspoken understanding of a culture that shapes the way we are, whether we like it or not — constitutes a bond much stronger than the rest of it.

You can't hide where you come from, no matter how much you may try. There's a difference being who you are and going into a relationship where your differences are accepted and even celebrated; it's another to subsume oneself in the futile attempt to "fit in." 

I've been teased and even mocked for my stubborn adherence to my heritage, especially since I don't even speak Yiddish or Hungarian fluently. But I'm proud of it, and identify with it, and I hoped to be with someone who wouldn't expect me to suppress it. I did end up with someone who is equally proud of his own background—and we enjoy the fact that our grandparents even knew each other.

They Got Me

Once upon a time, I would rant on this blog about the horrors of the smartphone. How it decreases meaningful connection. How the blue light messes up our sleep. How the constantly looking down at it gives you neck lines (Strivectin!).  

For years I held out, clutching my purple flip phone, refuses to succumb to the iPhone's wiles. 

Then, a few years ago, I became one of the enthralled masses. 

I still have a lame amount of apps, along with the two requisite social media ones. I'm not sure why I downloaded Instagram, and I regret it. Now I know why my sister has deleted it—more than once. 

On Facebook, there are a multitude of groups that have been rather informative. Originally, Facebook was the place to post pictures of one's perfect life, but those who want to be "influencers" have migrated to Instagram. So Facebook is relatively safe now, if one wants to ask about a good recipe for oatmeal applesauce muffins or sourdough technique or what's the best long wearing mascara. 

But Instagram? Oh boy. It could make nearly anyone (I think the narcissists should be okay) spiral into self-hating flagellation. How can she work full time yet manage to put together such a stunning tablescape? How could she have had a baby last month and be so skinny? Or, how could she be so skinny yet bake that sugar-laden, butter-saturated cake with heavy cream frosting? (Yes, I admit I have body image issues). 

It's a place where women can be rebbetzins yet pose with unsmiling Vogue faces as they drape on couches in stunning attire. It's a place where people humblebrag, who claim to be overworked and up all night with kids but still find the time to take fabulous shots in fabulous clothing in their fabulous homes with their fabulous kids and their fabulous husbands. 

I know, logically, that people are on it trying to promote their brands and businesses, and that few people will buy their products if it has been pitched unglamorously. And not all accounts are alike; many show real people, with real lives, the highs, lows, and everything in between. 

But then I wonder about these people on the other side, who display a life of perfection, but we all know that lives aren't perfect. They yell at their kids. They have arguments with their husbands. Outfits don't fit after a three-day yuntif. 

My friend was feeling inadequate after scrolling through everyone's amazingness, and I reassured her with some cattiness, claiming that yes, while their table might be magnificently set with chargers and dishes and cloth napkins and artfully arranged flowers and candles, who knows what the price of it was? Did she spend a few sleepless nights? Did one of her children nudge a candlestick out of place, causing her to freak? Did she focus all her attentions to get the ideal shot to the point that the yuntif meals consisted of cereal and milk, as no one had time to cook? 

OK, yes, granted, there is probably the Mary Poppins of Mommies out there who managed to get everything done complete with a full Face and whoever she may be, I salute you. But I wonder if there is a way to be more "real" on Instagram while promoting brands and businesses. 

Like, "this outfit is so comfortable and versatile, plus machine washable! Perfect for when your little one barfs all over you." Or "I did put a lot of effort and time into decorating the sukkah—that chandelier didn't get there on its own, you know!—but it gives my family such joy that they're willing to cook and I'm willing to let my house stay a flying mess." Or "If you seriously think I look this attractive while drinking a smoothie, you are not taking advantage of the myriad of filters that are available." 

Or, I could do the simpler option, and delete Instagram. 

Adios.

I Know We'll Meet Again

I haven't put on lipstick since March. 

I don't know who I am anymore.  

I would put on lipstick if I could. But with a mask, it would end up all over my face. Same with foundation/cc+ cream. 

And in fun other news, I'm getting some seeeeerious maskne. The kind that has Luke pointing and going "Ha ha!" and has Han tenderly dabbing my face with Mario Badescu Drying Lotion (which he found reduced in Nordstrom Rack, score!) Oddly enough, this breakout started when I began to actually wash my masks with regularity. Sigh. 

What does one do when a good chunk of their identity and image is tied to "War Paint"? OK, I still do my eyes, but I'm usually behind sunglasses, so the effect is sort of lost. (I never figured out the difference between "effect" and "affect." I should look into that.) 

Ben loved my makeup, once upon a time. He'd coo happily to see my Face. Will he know who I am, when this is over? It reminds me of the time Ma had the flu and didn't go out for a month. When she finally was able to go out again, her Face threw me off. 

But I think Corona has made all of us reconsider our identities in certain ways. I always thought I'd be fine with a life of hermitude, but now that I'm here it's getting rather old. 

I do believe I'll be reunited with my lipstick hoard again. When I'll buff my punim with long-wearing foundation. When—mmmm—I can get my eyebrows threaded.

And if Mashiach is there too, nuch besser. 

Honey Peeves

I've become a cantankerous broad (my age is showing). With all this talk of "apple and honey," I've become a tad pedantic. 

Because, when we speak of "dvash" in the biblical sense, it is technically date honey, not bee honey. So if we were going for authenticity, everyone would be reaching for a jar of silan. 

And what's the mishagaas about the apple? There's nothing significant about the apple itself. Everyone's making apple cakes and whatnot. But the apple doesn't represent anything! Maybe because one can't really going around dipping any other fruit into honey without it getting uber-messy?

I'm a little sore on this topic because I've never liked honey. Never. I just don't like the flavor. And if you say you don't like honey the first week of first grade then everyone looks at you like you've gone to the Dark Side. 

Because Rosh HaShana is all about the honey! 

Well, we're all grown-ups now, right? We know that if someone doesn't eat honey on Rosh HaShana she will not be doomed to a horrific year. Especially since it's about the sweetness, dating back to times when sweetness tended to be expensive. Honey was the available sweetener before cane sugar became a thing. 

I really like maple syrup and agave. I just don't like honey. Plus, now that I'm old and crabby, it also disagrees with my stomach. 

Han actually told me last week that he doesn't like honey either. I don't think I've ever been more in love. 

I'm not throwing out the baby with the bathwater. I'm still going to slice up an apple, but dip it into the sweetness of my preference. I've got the round challahs made. There'll be carrots and squash in some form, why not? There'll be a new fruit, probably the boring yet non-scary one Ma would get, the apple pear.

But no honey cake. There will be cake, but it won't have any honey in there. No fish head (Han hates fish, and I'm still carrying childhood trauma from seeing the fish head tucked next to the gefilte fish in the same container). 

Minhagim and simanim are important. But not if they make yuntif stressful. The ikkur is the yuntif, not the symbolistic trappings.

Everyone else knows how to shower others with New Year blessings, and I lamely reply, "Right back at ya." But to all, a git gebensht yur. 

Let's Talk About Flour

I, like the rest of the corona hermits, have taken to baking. When my sister stops by, she asks, "So what treats are in the freezer?" 

They haven't all been successes. The peanut butter cake that I made for Han (I hate peanut butter) is still untouched and taking up valuable space. The sourdough had a flop or three. Plus my "Battle of the Bulge" is a freakin' Waterloo, even with all my healthy swaps. Eh, it's COVID. We're all fat. 

For my cake and cookie needs, I usually use whole wheat pastry flour. The kintz with "pastry flour" is that it contains a lower protein content than regular whole wheat, meaning the cakes and cookies have the "right" texture. Or some such. 

But with the run on flour, I can't find whole wheat pastry flour anywhere. So I needed an alternative. My local store carries Shibolim whole spelt flour, so for the purposes of science I'd figure I'd give it a go. 

Whilst it sat nestled in the pantry, an article popped up in my Facebook feed about the glories of spelt. It claimed that while spelt contains gluten, the gluten strands are very fragile (unlike in wheat, where they are tough and sturdy). Because the gluten in essence falls apart in the stomach, spelt-based goodies are easier to digest than wheat. 

Well, I was out of pastry flour, so let's give it a go. 

1) The Bundtcake

This recipe was supposedly developed by my aunt, but it's near identical to another official recipe, so it looks like took false credit. In any case, the whole spelt tasted the same, but it's darker in color than the white whole wheat flour. 

 2) Lemon Cookies 

Han was quite clear. "Your best batch EVER," he proclaimed. When I asked for details, he said, "The crispiness. There's a dense crispiness." I'm not sure what he means by that, but he's always about texture. 

Personal Observations: Well, I'm not sure if I'm being delusional here, but it does feel easier on my stomach. My digestion, I must confess, has gone all geriatric on me (I can't eat a whole bunch of stuff anymore) so I'm rather in tune when it gets crabby. 

Conclusions: I think I'll stick with it. Some kids may get scared that the Bundtcake is a different color, but I won't tolerate racism in the kitchen.

Once is Enough

When I was dating, I never had what could be considered a previous "relationship" before Han. Most of my dates were one-and-dones; on rare occasion, a second date. Only once did I go as far as a third. 

It was on the aforementioned third date (there was a post I already dedicated to that event) that I was informed that this dating pattern wasn't acceptable. As I recall, he said, "What's wrong with you?" 

I felt as though he had socked me in the stomach. I staggered about for the next hour, wondering if there was something wrong with me, only to delightfully realize my date was a jerk. 

Han says the same thing; the majority of his dates were one, maybe two, meetings. 

This issue is addressed in Eckel's chapter entitled, "You Need Practice"; the theory is that one cannot be ready for the REAL relationship if they haven't had a serious one beforehand. 

So, you know how not everyone is the same? So some people can go out with someone, think they are nice enough, start a relationship with them, dangle along for an indeterminate amount of time, conclude they aren't really "feeling it," part ways, and start again.

For me, that would not do. On a first date, I would usually be able to zero in that our values didn't mesh, and then say, "He's not for me." (Or, if I did say, "I'd go out again," then he'd say no.) Here is where the gut plays a role; I would know, I would just know, that this guy isn't meant to be my husband. There is something in his behavior that shows that he's not very considerate, or that he's sweet but his conversation is not on your wavelength.

Frankly, I found dating emotionally draining enough that "practicing" with countless guys would have left me a babbling wreck. I only wanted to start with the REAL relationship. When it's the right person for you, then you don't need the "practice." You just . . . work, and not in the "marriage is work" sort of work. You mesh, relatively painlessly, although he can't stand it when you wear your old socks with holes in the heels (I like my holey socks!)

Shidduch Lit: It's Not You

 OK, I know I have been saying that the persecution of singles takes place all over, in all cultures, countries, and societies, but I don't think that it really hit home until I read Sara Eckel's It's Not You: 27 (Wrong) Reasons You're Single. 

I mean, I thought it took place on some level, but not to the extreme as it is in the frum world. From what I've been gleaning from this book, which was recommended by an anonymous follower, the perception of something inherently wrong with singles is a view shared by, well, the entire human race. 

As I read, I was surprised how practically every sensation I experienced as a single was accurately described. Her chapter on being picky was practically my post on the same topic, word-for-word. 

That lead me to another epiphany: I'm expecting too much from our community. 

If the entire human race finds singlehood terrifying to look at, how is it possible for the frum demographic to calm the hell down? Eckel is describing a lifestyle where people aren't particularly religious yet they expect everyone to pair up; our faith demands that men get married and make a go at populating the earth. 

I can't expect the frummies to become mellow with the whole concept of "older singles." The campaign slogan, instead, should be kindness. Or tact, at the very least. 

Tragedy exists in a multitude of forms. People are born with disabilities. People die young by illness or accident. People yearn to be parents, but remain childless. Those subject to those circumstances must struggle with hurtful comments as well. 

The problem isn't the wrong perception of singlehood. It's the typical reaction that in our discomfort and need to control, we often say things in a desperate attempt to believe that we can prevent such circumstances, that if we do the "right thing" then we shall be thusly spared. 

So, single person, you must be too picky. You must be commitment phobic. You must not be trying hard enough.

Now we can all sleep at night. 

To get back on topic, Eckel's book is an excellent read for those who have been battered by well-meaning yet ego-devastating comments. I would have highlighted and posted 85% of it and reposted it, when it's much more gratifying to simply read it. She doesn't simply make a statement like "that's ridiculous"; she backs it up with other papers, other thinkers (even Brene!), other points, logically disproving the myth at hand.

So You Thought It Was Just Us

I think that the major frustration of being single is not that one is single, but that other people treat you like you are the most pitiable creature to grace the Earth. 

It's a form of gaslighting, really. Because when one is single, one is technically able to do all sorts of things, things that are not exactly feasible when one is wed and babied. So instead of spending one's single years doing those things, one spends one's single years calling up shadchanim, attending singles events, and feeling like crud. 

Plus, if I might be honest . . . it's not like marriage results in mindless bliss for everyone. I've been hearing a story or two that wedding does not equal happily ever after. Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy to be married—to Han. No one else would do.

Katerina Tsasis' Modern Love essay begins with awful familiarity: 

People treat you differently when you are steadily single. Not everyone, not all the time, not always overtly, not necessarily unkindly. They ask why no one has snatched you up, offer to set you up on blind dates, seat you at the singles table at formal events. . . As a child, I belonged to an immigrant community that viewed marriage and motherhood as a woman’s primary goal in life. . . Here’s another thing that happens when you’re single: Your time and plans are perceived as less fixed and less valid than for people who are married.

She did things. 

Over that next year I learned new subjects, traveled to a dozen countries, practiced speaking other languages, watched an opera staged on the steps of a castle, hiked Mount Kilimanjaro, drove the terrifying roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe.

Singles aren't permitted to enjoy themselves. If they do, then they aren't "serious" about marriage. They have to curl up in a corner and cry non-stop for divine intervention.  They have to view themselves as pathetic and in need of major overhaul. 

She got the same load of crap from people that we do/did. 

At this point, I had stopped believing one needed a partner to be fulfilled in life, but I still thought I must be lacking in some fundamental way — not good enough, attractive enough, nice enough, or something enough — in comparison.

Friends, relatives, acquaintances and even strangers will obligingly point out what you, as a single person, seem to lack. A friend of mine went to see a doctor regarding a mental health question and his prescription was that she needed a boyfriend. Well-meaning relatives urged her to go to church to find a man, even though she’s agnostic.

I have been told I’m too picky, not getting any younger, should put myself out there more, have to fight for love, and should look for a guy who’s more attractive and less attractive, more nerdy and less nerdy, more assertive and less assertive.

Men I have barely known or haven’t known at all have told me I should wear more makeup, change my attitude, do more situps, dress differently, smile more. I’ve heard it on a first date, walking down the street minding my business, and in the middle of a conversation about a totally different subject.

Deja vu all over again. 

And then, a relationship that worked.

There wasn’t any magic about it, no soul awakening, no personal reckoning, no neat and tidy reason as to why it worked where the others hadn’t. I met a man who is a lovely human being. We found shared interests and chemistry. We treated each other with kindness and respect. I’m pretty sure if I had met him years before, or years later, the outcome would have been the same: We got married.

I’m the same person, living in the same place, doing the same job, with the same friends and the same hobbies. There was nothing worse about me before. There is nothing better about me now. And yet, people who treated my singlehood with curiosity, pity or disregard are now warmer and more welcoming. It’s as if I have joined the club.

That's what annoys me. I'm now "acceptable," no longer "three- headed bearded lady." But after so many years as "circus freak," it's kind of hard to readjust to acceptance. I feel like an imposter—"Oh, you are making polite chit-chat, new acquaintance? Don't you know you're supposed to look at me with condescending derision?"

When I lived in Los Angeles, I used to go out with friends and queue for hours to get into some new, exclusive club, only to finally get in and discover there wasn’t much going on inside. The social pressure regarding marriage feels like that, an emphasis on getting through the doorway without enough care for what lies beyond.

Marriage isn't magically, effortlessly wonderful. But little conversation takes place regarding self-improvement to be in the best place for lifetime partnership. It's all about a wedding. Zeh hu. 

On the other side, decimated with exhaustion from a very demanding (yet no less squishy) baby, I'm amazed how they sell this to young young kids who haven't had a chance to do much. I'm enjoying him very much cause I waited so long to have him, but for youngsters, get a chance to do some things, cause one day all you'll want to do is sleep. Plus I've cleaned epic amounts of vomit twice in three days (he's fine! he's fine!).  

Our experiences vary. I can only describe mine. We punish and reward people for how well they conform to our ideals without even realizing it. We punish ourselves when the things we’re told to want keep us from appreciating and enjoying the things we have.

Someone may read this and find my thoughts obvious, trite, outdated. Someone may read this and think I have missed out in life. I’m writing it anyway, for the times I thought: “Maybe I’m imagining things” and “Maybe they’re right” and “Maybe there is something wrong with my life.”

Did this woman read my diary? 

It's very hard to ignore everyone's comments. It's very hard to have self-faith when everyone is telling you that you are a hideous aberration. Now on the other side, I wonder if it's a conspiracy: I'm married, you're not, so let's have a little fun. Because I don't think these comments come from a place of "I'm so delirious with joy in my marriage that I'll make this person feel terrible about being single." 

Marriage doesn't confer any special status. What is it about singles that make marrieds so nervous that they have to inform them that they're a problem? 

Hmmmmm.  

The Other Side

 "It was the perfect date," she declared. "We had so much in common. We talked for hours. But, he came late, so I think that's gonna mean a 'no' from me." 

Has anyone said that, ever? At least, has anyone sane ever said that?

I saw an article about a former older single who opines that her friends are just being so stupidly picky. Like, they won't see a guy again who was late or didn't open the door for her or took her for dinner and not coffee, or vice versa. 

Look, if a woman is complaining that her date was late, chances are the rest of the evening was a dud as well. She's just starting from the beginning. 

I happen to be a punctual sort of person. Like, ridiculously punctual. I'm usually early and spend my time twiddling my thumbs. And Han is . . . not. For example, for the majority of our dates I would get a text about a half hour before the meeting time with an apologetic delay. It got to a point that I would put on my makeup first, scrub the kitchen, and only get dressed if I knew for sure he was en route. 

Do I find this quirk sometimes exasperating? Yes. But was it a deal breaker? Well, no, obviously, because everything else was great. But if a date was late, and he was a jerk, I might have mentioned his tardiness on the list of his other failures as a human being. 

And what is up with once older singles chucking their compatriots under the bus? Hello, you weren't exactly 21 when you got married, lady, so why are you turning on your own former demographic?

OK, I can obviously understand their betrayal, it's not that hard. Hurt people hurt people; after years of abuse, it's nice to have the "upper hand," so to speak, to become one of the married masses and talk with that "I got married because I did such-and-such" voice. 

I've fallen into that trap too many times before to get snookered in. I didn't meet the right person until I was old. That's it. There was no grand internal reckoning, there was no sage I consulted, there was no sacrificial goat on a mountaintop with thunder and lightning. 

Ergo, I cannot claim it was something I said or did that got me married to the right person. I'm just thank the Big Matchmaker in the Sky, and try not to be obnoxious to other people.

Marry Him?

After finishing her book, I googled "Lori Gottlieb" to find more material on her, and I discovered that she wrote a book ten years ago called Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough.

Uh-oh. 

It was based on an article she wrote for The Atlantic in 2008: 

My advice is this: Settle! That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling “Bravo!” in movie theaters. Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics. Because if you want to have the infrastructure in place to have a family, settling is the way to go. Based on my observations, in fact, settling will probably make you happier in the long run, since many of those who marry with great expectations become more disillusioned with each passing year. (It’s hard to maintain that level of zing when the conversation morphs into discussions about who’s changing the diapers or balancing the checkbook.)

Et tu, Lori? 

Reading on, I realized the issue is based on what "settling" actually means. I can't quite relate to this, because I'm actually a very boring person who just wanted to set up house and I was on the search for someone to set up the house with. Note, it was easier said than done. 

She's making the claim that a steady, reliable guy who will be a hands-on father and care about your feelings are a dime a dozen, and women primarily search for the sweep-me-off-my-feet dashing cool dudes who will only divorce them for younger models. Generalization much?

I came across this article in Jezebel magazine from earlier this year rehashing Gottlieb's book. The author, Tracy Clark-Flory, is annoyed how women are broadly painted with the "unrealistic expectations" brush, "Meanwhile, men come under no meaningful critique for superficiality or entitlement in the realm of sex and romance. They are largely the sane observers of women’s irrational whims." 

Gottlieb considers herself guilty of "unrealistic expectations." She ended up becoming a mother via sperm donor as she had no man on the horizon. Spoiler, her most recent book, published nearly a decade later, opens with her boyfriend breaking up with her when she thought he was "The One." It makes me wonder if she believed that if she was willing to try hard enough then a relationship would work. But it takes two to tango, and don't we know that. 

However, Clark-Flory does note that the publishers insisted on this eye-catching title, while Gottlieb's point was more about prioritizing character in a life partner as opposed to his looks. 

Clark-Flory had broken up with her lovely boyfriend when she was 26 because she wasn't ready for a forever commitment. She had fretted if she had made the right decision, and did end up marrying later on. But she concludes: 

Now that we’re here, many of us have realized, if we hadn’t long ago, that marriage isn’t a guarantee of happiness, it doesn’t automatically secure an equal partnership in parenting, and it’s often only a temporary state.

More to the point: no predictive storyline emerged around pickiness or settling, because there are no rules to this game. An individual woman’s marital status at any point in time is often chiefly representative of the unpredictable lives many of us are now allowed to live.

THERE ARE NO RULES! I really thought I was not being picky about dating (even though people said I was). I went out with guys who did not fit my criteria. And it didn't go anywhere until Han came along, who, I might add, had also been accused of being "picky."

I was not looking for Brad Pitt. Other single women I know of were/are not looking for Brad Pitt. But they still had a tough time. Because finding the right partner is not always easy, nothing to do with "settling." 

A woman may find her Brad Pitt immediately, and happily spend the rest of her life gazing at his pretty face. A man may be "searching for a heart of gold," but he's "growing old." Finding the right person, for anyone, no matter what the criteria might be, is not always a simple matter "reasonable criteria." Sometimes it doesn't work, no matter how much compromise is on the table.

"It is Kindness I Desire"

It once happened that Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai was leaving Jerusalem with Rabbi Joshua, and they witnessed the destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Joshua said, “Woe to us, for the place where the sins of Israel were atoned for has been destroyed.” Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai said, “Do not be bitter, my son, for we have another form of atonement which is as great, and this is gemilut hasadim; as the verse states, “for it is kindness I desire and not burnt offerings” [Hos. 6:6].

I looked up this story after hearing it on one of the Tisha B'Av shiurim, surprised that it isn't part of the standard curriculum (Kamtza and Bar Kamtza, a very confusing story that is hard to translate usually gets the glory, for some reason). 

Hashem says that He wants us to be kind. That's it. To atone for our sins, all we gotta do is be nice. 

Isn't that awesome?

Indian Shidduchim

I don't usually binge tv. I pride myself that I don't binge tv. 

Then I binged (to the best of my mothering ability) the end of Season 3 of "Offspring" (so much suspense!). Last week I clicked on "Indian Matchmaking" (pretty lame title, I know) and plowed through 8 episodes in 2 days. 

It's supposedly a reality show, but we all know reality shows aren't really "reality." Content is carefully edited for maximum impact. Drama is often cultivated to keep things interesting. 

There also begs the question as to what sort of person wants their lives broadcasted on international screens. 

The show centers around Sima, who claims to be "the top matchmaker in Mumbai" (can that be verified?) and her travels around the world to meet various clients. 

A common complaint by Sima is how her clients expect too much, they want the perfect person that doesn't exist, that they must be more flexible and willing to compromise. Take Aparna, who is located in the US. 

Aparna, initially, doesn't come off as very likable. She's not a cheerful sort of person. Sima notes her "negative vibes." Aparna tells Sima what she's looking for, and frankly, I didn't think she was being unreasonable. She even says what she doesn't need—funny. 

Sima then sets her up with someone who barely meets her criteria—probably another way to generate some drama. No surprise, Aparna is not interested in him. 

As the show goes on, Aparna becomes less grim, more smiley, but no less specific about what she needs. Why should she be? She actually knows herself.

Then there's the India-based Akshay. He makes it quite clear that he's not interested in marriage yet, but his mother wants him wed. Akshay is obviously dragging his feet while his mother is pulling the ol' Jewish guilt about her blood pressure. 

It's kind of painful to watch Akshay in action, as he is not a natural in front of the camera. Listening to him attempt to make conversation with a girl is torturous ("So, do you like dogs?").

Then Nadia. Nadia's "issue" is that while she's ethnically Indian, her family has been living in Guyana for generations (they are now in the US). Some Indian men find that off-putting. But she's definitely who everyone (the audience) has a crush on—she's  gorgeous (those highlights!), bright, and bubbly (but definitely not flaky as she is an event planner). She's totally the opposite of Aparna. Yet Sima sets them both up with the same guy, Shekar. In fact, the same three American based candidates keep popping up. It makes you wonder how many singles Sima actually knows in the US. 

So here's the kicker: none of the people featured on the show actually ends up with a relationship. The one engagement, which is loftily proclaimed, was called off yet that detail was not included in the show (thank you Internet, for the rebuttal). 

Han was wondering why they call it "arranged marriages" when it's really not anymore. It's like us, shidduch dating, which connotes a matchmaker. Akshay had a hundred girls suggested to him, but he rejected them for nebulous reasons (because he doesn't want to get married yet! He said so!) 

It was an easy, relatable watch, but the end point is the same for us: a matchmaker is not a miracle worker. She is not an all-knowing being who can magically select one's soulmate from the mass of humanity. She flings spaghetti against the wall to see what sticks. 

So so familiar . . . 

Physician, Heal Thyself

I finished "Maybe You Should Talk to Someone" by Lori Gottlieb, a therapist who finds she needs therapy. 

She brings sagas of her own patients (with details carefully changed, she makes a point to say), along with the story of why and how she became a therapist. 

So Lori has a life event that she finds herself unable to recover from. She is so unmoored that while she gives wise guidance to her patients' crises, she is otherwise lost. She decides to go into therapy. 

What I found fascinating about this is that if a patient came to her with the same issue, chances are she would have been able to help. But she was helpless when it happened to her, requiring an outside perspective to get her over the rut. 

If a therapist, who has been trained for this, is unable to guide herself, how much more blind are we? 

It takes so much to be self-aware. Ma would say that we have to be able to look at ourselves in the mirror, but from the side, using peripheral vision. We can't be expected to handle ourselves head on. It's too much. 

Oscar Wilde said, "To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance." Only the most obvious narcissists can manage to do that, I think. But coming to know oneself is a nobler enterprise, as self-improvement is a lifelong project.

To Be

Shabbos was drawing to a close. I had coaxed Ben to eat his supper, belting out zemiros to keep him content. I changed him into the new pajamas I had managed to snatch in the madhouse that was Costco, the beautiful shade of blue contrasting with his tanned feet.

The day had been warm and humid, but a pleasant breeze had begun to whisper through the trees, the sun no longer glaring as it slid lower in the sky. I decided to give Ben his pre-bed bottle outside in the fresh air. (He would spend the whole day outdoors if he could.)

The moment was perfect. 

Ben removed the almost-empty bottle from his mouth and emitted an dainty burp. 

I smiled at him adoringly. 

Then there was geyser of white liquid shooting out of him. I was hit! It was followed by his dinner, Greek yogurt, compote, and chia seed pudding, all still very recognizable, but now smelling distinctly of vomit. 

He blinked innocently, while I remained frozen for a few seconds in shock. I was dripping in projectile. 

Han and I then stripped the poor stinking fellow, who seemed oddly unperturbed at losing all his stomach contents. It did not go well when I tried to force some Pedialyte down his throat; he is surprisingly strong for a baby.

I then bundled him into bed, worrying at his refusal to drink, and spent the night tiptoeing in repeatedly to check on his breathing. 

I wondered—it had been a perfect moment. But I couldn't keep that moment? Seriously? The moment had to be literally puked all over? 

I then remembered "Bikeish Yaakov leshev b'shalva." All Yaakov wanted was to live a life of peace. But that's not what this life is about. Peace is for the next world. Here, we must suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. 

Well, I suppose I could handle a stomach bug.

I called my sister in a panic on Motzei Shabbos; she poo-pooed my worries. And he was bright-eyed by morning, ready for another perfect moment.   

The Cruel and the Thoughtless

When the libraries are shut down, it can be a lifesaver to bump into a reader whilst out for a stroll. Then you can negotiate an exchange. I got my hands on Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz. 

I'm not usually into whodunit books (I prefer to watch them, courtesy of BBC via PBS). But Horowitz was the writer of Foyle's War, one of my favorite series (Foyle is a detective solving murders in England while World War II rages).  

Magpie Murders was quite gripping, to the point I shamelessly let Ben play with my phone (in airplane mode, so he can't call Luke's doctor friend) so I could finish it. 

There were two quotes in there I found intriguing. 

One: 

In fact, Fraser had often heard the detective remark that there was no such thing as a coincidence. There was a chapter in The Landscape of Criminal Investigation where he had expressed the belief that everything in life had a pattern and that a coincidence was simply the moment when that pattern became briefly visible.

The detective, I should note, is a Holocaust survivor who is a professed atheist. 

Two: 

OK, I don't have the actual quote, because I failed to memorize the correct page on Shabbos. I didn't have the energy to start rifling through a few hundred pages to locate it, and then my sister-in-law popped by and she desperately needs books the way I do, so I handed it off. 

So, as best as my memory can summon it: Cruelty and thoughtlessness have the same results. 

Or something like that.   

Han was telling over something he had read by a black Jewish woman. She is constantly hurt by people who make assumptions that this is her first time at a frum simcha, or that she is a guest as opposed to part of the family. She has gone home in tears more than once. 

But here's the thing: I'm FFB, and I've gone home in tears from people's comments as well. You don't have to be obviously different to suffer from stupid assumptions or unfiltered words. 

There are those who are malicious, and will tear others down, knowing what they are doing is mean. But most people are simply thoughtless. There is a direct line between their mental dialogue and their mouths. They don't intend to be hurtful. They may even think they are being considerate and sensitive. 

I've been guilty of that too. I recently made a friend (I know! Me! A friend! Call the papers!) and I have, in our last few meetings, consistently screwed up. I made assumptions, and said mindlessly hurtful things because of that, thinking all the while that I'm so nice. 

And I've been doing it over, and over, and over! Yes, I do have baby brain and about a year's worth of sleep debt, but even so, couldn't I use that filter thingie that I wish other people would use? 

I'm a card-carrying grudge-aholic. I still think about the time in high school a girl said to me, "You're tall," and I said, for lack of a better response, "Thank you," and she said, "I didn't mean it as a compliment." It was almost TWENTY YEARS AGO. Like, GET A LIFE, PRINCESS. 

I have to cut other people slack, because I wish they would cut me slack. It's hard to make a response in the socially acceptable time frame after properly thinking it through from every possible angle. I think, "Yup, sounds good!" and then as soon as I have uttered it, think, "OMG, did I do thaaaaat?"

Most people are clueless, not malicious. Most people are trying their best, and we really don't know what burdens other people have. 

So when this COVID mishagaas is over, and I finally socialize again, someone will say something to me that will upset me. If I am aware enough, I will remember that I am not perfect either, and may actually let it go.  

Getting Better

One of the basic tenets of Judaism is teshuva, repentance; that (nearly) all sins can be washed away if we truly regret our actions and work on becoming better. 

But cancel culture doesn't allow for redemption. If you make a mistake, you are a horrible person and deserve to be driven out of society. There is a desert island with your name on it, bub. 

According to this article by Ginia Bellafante, Abraham Foxman (the former director of the Anti-Defamation League) advocates the Jewish way. 

“Now what you’re seeing is one wrong picture, and you are finished for life,” Mr. Foxman told me recently. This is an outcome he finds regrettable. “All my life I was lucky enough to fight prejudice and anti-Semitism,” he said. “If you don’t believe you can change people’s hearts and minds, why bother? If you are not going to try and change hearts and minds, why are you in this business at all?”

For Mr. Foxman, the “business” to some degree involved fielding calls for help from lawyers and agents representing celebrities and other public figures who had incurred the world’s wrath with lapses in sensitivity — with dangerous remarks or derogatory caricatures about Jewish people. When those crisis managers sought an E-ZPass to exoneration — a perfunctory public apology, a donation made to the appropriate charity — Mr. Foxman was not eager to intervene. But when someone showed a willingness to do the hard work of self-interrogation, to delve into the history of oppression and marginalization, Mr. Foxman was there to take the lead on resurrection.

“You have to be able to restitute,” he said.

 I was thinking just the other day (before reading this article) what if someone held something against me for something I said when I was 5, when I was 10, when I was 15, when I was 20, when I was 25, when I was 30, I would be mortified. And sorry, so so sorry. I say stuff constantly that I regret, that came out wrong.

Some people are clueless. Some people are unexposed. Some people might say hurtful things from a place of hate, but as long as his pitchfork stays in his garage he shouldn't lose his job, nor should his children suffer for his words. One day, he could get better, as long as hate isn't visited upon him in return.

What I See

A few weeks ago, a frum periodical fielded a question—the writer's friend is "a bit much," and she finds her too draining. Can she withdraw? The magazine didn't really answer the question, I think. 

Two letters were printed in the following issue. One said that the writer should be honest, tell the friend her feelings, and the friend will totally understand (not likely, in my opinion). 

The other letter decried the modern mantra of "honesty" and "self-care" at the expense of hurting another, which she says is the antithesis of our faith (that's leaning more to my view). 

This example of how two people can look at a situation so differently has made me realize (yet again) how we cannot judge. People just see things from different perspectives. One viewpoint may be right—for that person. Another viewpoint might be wrong—for that person.  

For me, I have never learned properly how to keep a not-good friend at bay. I am not proud to say I may have resorted to ghosting for lack of better options. I could not be honest, because in essence I would be saying, "I do not enjoy your company, as there is something wrong with your personality." Sometimes two people just don't jive, like in shidduchim. 

Nowadays, perhaps I would try to make some boundaries. Pick up the phone when I feel like I can handle her, then say that I don't have much time to chat, ten minutes max. I thought it was amazing when I discovered I could say, "I'm sorry, I have to go," without giving any reason whatsoever.

Perhaps because it's the miserable time of year, but I've been thinking a lot about sinas chinam and whatnot. 

We all aren't the same. We all see the world differently. That's what happened by the Eitz HaDaas. Before, we could only see truth and falsehood, which are objective; now we see good and bad, which is subjective. My good is your bad; your good is my bad. 

It's not about honesty. It's about tolerance. It's about kindness.  

Gratitude in Covid

"So what are these for?" I ask over Ben's hysterical wailing. 

"This one is for meningitis, and this one is for pneumonia," she explains, applying a band-aid to the pinprick on his upper arm. "He's going to be crabby the next few days—you can give him Tylenol."  

I was awash in awe and gratitude, even though he was takka crabby that night and by the time I thought to give him the Tylenol, it was waaaaaay past my bedtime.

My niece was asking me about vaccinations—she didn't quite understand how they work, and I did a pretty clumsy job trying to explain, referencing cowpox and smallpox and Spanish flu and milder forms of flu that prepped the older population to withstand the onslaught. 

I was talking to Ta about Ben's shots, and his response was the same as mine. "It's amazing, when once 8 out of 10 children died," he said. 

"I know, isn't it?" 

I didn't want to terrorize my niece, but all those diseases we don't even process anymore—polio, smallpox, diptheria—they once killed so many.

Nowadays, it is understood a child will live. Then, they believed a child could die.

It is understood that there will be a vaccine developed for Covid; we won't be living in fear forever. We know how to overcome it. Once, they had no comprehension of basic hygiene (see "The Doomsday Book" by Connie Willis).   

Obviously, Ben cannot understand why masked demons are terrorizing him with my permission, and I can't help but recall its example as a mashal—sometimes we have times of pain, because Hashem says it's for our best.

Blessing vs. Control

"My friend married at 40," she was saying over the phone. "She says he was everything she could have wanted, he's her Mr. Perfect, and definitely worth the wait. But," she sighed, "she doesn't have children."

"But who's to say," I replied, "that if she married at 30, she would have had children?" 

The phone went silent. 

I try to think if I would have married "someone" just to have children. It sounds rather bleak. Especially as there are no guarantees that one can actually have children. 

Children are a blessing, the same way marriage is a blessing. While some insist marriage is a choice, my own experiences has made me believe that it is a blessing, meaning out of one's control.

Articles that shake their heads over the "crisis" talk about "the no" as though it is the end of everything. "She said no," they gasp, "and then he got engaged to someone else!" Well, yeah, that's bound to happen at some point. I don't think she expected him to stay single forever pining over her. 

But if he doesn't get engaged to someone else . . . I mean, we've all heard stories, right? Days later, weeks later, months later, years later, they marry. 

OK, so what's my point? It's not in our control. Not the spouse, not the kids. I've started to hate the word "hishtadlus," a term initially meant for parnassa that was applied willy-nilly to dating, because I CAN'T CONTROL WHO SHOWS UP. Suddenly everything is hishtadlus: research is hishtadlus, singles events are hishtadlus, dating online is hishtadlus. That doesn't make sense.

The joy of being religious is the belief that I am part of a greater plan. I am part of the story, not the storyteller. 

Whatever Will Be, Will Be

While I do admit to being a worrier, I don't worry about world events. I worry about minor things, like will Ben end up with a girl who will convince him to never visit home again. That sort of thing. 

Han has been brooding over the news, while I haven't at all. I'm too acquainted with history to get hysterical over who will become president because of this. History marches on, and it will be what it will be. It's fine. 

Mark Lilla delightfully calls out the modern "prophets" in "No One Knows What's Going to Happen." He even references Iyov: 

The history of humanity is the history of impatience. Not only do we want knowledge of the future, we want it when we want it. The Book of Job condemns as prideful this desire for immediate attention. Speaking out of the whirlwind, God makes it clear that he is not a vending machine. He shows his face and reveals his plans when the time is ripe, not when the mood strikes us. We must learn to wait upon the Lord, the Bible tells us. Good luck with that, Job no doubt grumbled.

While a potential pandemic may have been predicted by some, none was able to claim when exactly it would happen. 

Cable news brought with it an army of talking heads that usually prophecy doom and gloom (I don't think any of them ever have anything cheerful on the horizon). 

I think the biggest ha-ha moment was when Trump was elected. No one saw that coming. Like, not even Republicans.  

If we knew what the future would bring, what would be the point? Sure, it would have been nice to get a telegram before my first date at 19 and be informed, "Don't bother. You'll be over 30 when you get married, so you might as well spare yourself." The agony and angst and whatnot had its purpose, or so I believe. 

History has its own way of unfolding. The people who predate historic events, chances are, did not see them coming (I really feel bad for the Pompeii population, though. Predicting horrific natural disasters should be a priority). 

But as for who will be president, who cares? He'll be in office four years, which, trust me, is not long enough to blow this country sky-high. Check your history. Someone else will come along and clean up his mess.

Not That Desperate

She couldn't bear matchmaking. In Southampton friends had tried over the years, and it had never worked. There was normally a reason why the man was still single: overbearing, or humorless, or self-absorbed, or with a disinclination to wash. And she had a perverse reaction to being told she would like someone. When she was a child, if her mother said she would like a particular dress or toy or pudding, Violet almost willed herself to hate it. — A Single Thread by Tracy Chevalier

Violet is a "surplus woman," a term for the outnumbering of British men by women by two million following World War I and the Spanish Flu. (I'll see your shidduch crisis and raise it.)  It's amazing, when you think about it, that there was a sufficient next generation of young men to fight in World War II.

Ergo, there usually was a reason why a man would still be single back then, as most women, if they wanted marriage badly enough, would definitely "compromise." Although, her list of reasons sound familiar enough to me, including a date who had a "disinclination to wash" (he was trying to be, literally, "greasy yeshivish." I didn't realize that was a thing until I went out with him). 

Are we familiar now with the term, "Good enough for yenem" meaning, "Not for my daughter, no way, but for you, he's totally good enough"? What makes it worse is when one is accused of being "picky" for not entertaining the "good enough" suggestion. 

It's not as though Violet is desperate enough for any man, for there are a few, and seem to be acceptable. She was in love with her fiance, who died in the war; but she still dislikes setups.

It was a bleak life for women back then if they decided to leave home, as Violet did; the only work they could do was usually secretarial, and that paid barely enough for Violet to eat. 

And yet, it's not even an option for her to consider a man she does not like. She would obviously rather starve. 

So why should women today, who thankfully can earn their own bread, be any different?