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?  

To Have and To Hold

It's been three years, and the grieving continues. 

I wish Ma was here, I think at times. She would make me a magnificent paprikash. We would go clothing shopping together. She would be there for me when I'm wigging out because Ben has  a bad stomach. 

But then I was struck with guilt. Is that why you want Ma? I scolded myself. For what she could do for you? Shouldn't you want her here because you want to give to her?  

I then regret the gestures I had yet to make. For one example, her favorite food was sea bass, and thanks to my many dating years I knew the best place to have it was Colbeh. But Ma ate out rarely, and that was one experience I wanted to have given her. 

I was watching the pilot for Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist (SPOILER AHEAD). Zoey's father has been diagnosed with a degenerative motor neuron disease, and he can no longer communicate. Zoey sits by his side and cries that she wishes he were able to speak to tell her what to do, as her work life isn't too good and the guy she has a crush on is unavailable. 

I was irritated at Zoey. That's why she wants her father to speak? To help her with her crises? He's dying! Leave him alone! At least the next scene shows her bullying her family to take him on an outing he'd enjoy. 

Rabbi Aaron Lopiansky wrote recently how we have the completely wrong perspective about Moshiach. When everything is ok, we don't exactly yearn for him. But when things go to hell in a handbasket, suddenly then we cry for him. 

But if Moshiach is supposed to come simply when things are bad, then he would have come a really long time ago. Check your history, kids, much, much, MUCH worse things have happened. You want Moshiach to come because life got difficult? 

We're supposed to want him when everything is honky-dory. 

We're always told as kids that if we want Moshiach to come, we have to be really really nice. We have to stop saying loshon hara. We have to include everyone. How does that fit into the narrative that he should come when we are in a crisis? 

If we truly cherish people, we don't ask them Do something for me. We say, Let me do this for you. 

For those of you who have their mothers and fathers and spouses and children, use your opportunities to show how much they mean to you. 

Offended!

Han played for me a segment from an audiobook he's listening to. It's called Fortitude: American Resilience in the Era of Outrage by Dan Crenshaw. 

Crenshaw relates a story from his childhood, when he was 9, and he was acting goofy in class. They were learning about food chains, and he messed around with it by stating that classmates eat each other (Mary eats Tim, Tim eats Sarah) and then said the teacher, Ms. Smith, eats a student. 

The teacher went berserk. She dragged him to the vice principal's office, where she claimed he was mocking her weight. The VP gravely showed him that for the use of profanity, he could serve prison time. 

He was 9. His mother was called down to the school. She was dying of cancer at the time, and did not particularly care about the teacher's hysterics. His parents did not punish him for his "misbehavior." 

Han then played an interview Crenshaw had with Bill Maher, and he quoted another saying something along the lines of "Try hard not to offend, and try even harder not to be offended." 

He was saying this in response to a question about a SNL parody done of him, when his eye patch was mocked. He lost his eye in combat, so yeah, low blow. (The SNL comedian apologized and was forgiven.) 

It made me realize how many "offenses" are really misunderstandings. Crenshaw, at 9, was clueless about the teacher's weight, but she, perhaps quite self-conscious about her dress size, overreacted to his childish musings. Because she could only see things from her perspective, she made a mountain out of a molehill. 

Look, I'm one of those annoyingly sensitive people. I get insulted very easily. Additionally, nearly all of my interpersonal interactions are overanalyzed in retrospect, to the point I'm in near tears at my potentially harming comments. 

But if I would get out of my own head a little, and not be obsessed with my own insecurities, I would realize that nobody really meant anything by what they said, nor are they giving my words that much thought. At least, not as much thought as I'm giving them. 

It's about looking less inward, and more outward. To see people. And to acknowledge, as I heard it said, "That you're not that important."

Eye Makeup Remover is Serious Stuff

Once upon a time, when Sephora would have their 20% off events, I would stock up on enough makeup to last me quite some time. So it was only a few months ago that I noticed I was on my last bottle of Philosophy Just Release Me eye makeup remover. 

I moseyed over to the internet to find my baby, only to discover that it had been discontinued. 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Before you pat me on the back in a comforting fashion, bear in mind it took me forever to find Just Release Me in the first place. The usual favorite, by Lancome, left behind a greasy residue (in my mind). Every other product I tried merely smeared the mascara into racoon circles around my eyes, as opposed to removing it. 

I researched "dupe" frantically, and found an obscure post on an obscure blog claiming that they, too, panicked at the disappearance of Just Release Me, but found that the eye makeup remover by Neutrogena was an excellent replacement. It even had the same ingredients, the blogger wrote. 

I was dubious, as I had tried nearly every drugstore eye makeup remover already and they were disappointing. But, I tend to believe everyone's recommendations so I thought I'd give it a whirl. 

And . . . she was right! 

So, while I feel slightly stupid for paying so much over these past who knows how many years, I am thankful I do not have to rub my eyes into an early wrinkly future. Shiver.

I Still Got It

While I on my morning walk last week, I pushed the stroller with one hand and kept my cell in the other. 

Luke and I had somehow ended up going from light chit chat to a fierce Biblical debate. He was of the opinion that if Moshe had not hit the rock, history could have been different. If the Jews had his leadership in the Land, he argued, instead of Yehoshua's, things could have gone another way.  

I was of the belief that the punishment was merely that he could not be buried in Eretz Yisroel, as he was not supposed to lead them into the Land in any case. Moshe was the leader of miracles, who had to teach a nation to cast off the shackles of slavery and become free men. Now, with their liberated mindset, they had to leave the miraculous existence and fight for the land. Because one only cherishes that which is fought for. The way we fight for the Land today and cherish it all the more for it.

Luke kept insisting I was denying bechira, while I countered that Moshe was punished with burial outside the Land, not death. Prior, he could have been buried in the Land, but now he could not.

I walked amongst the newly sprung vegetation, everything vibrant and green, the way it was supposedly on Har Sinai. 

I'm guessing he finally, begrudgingly, heard my argument because after a motley of somewhat incoherent voice notes, he ceased on that topic, and started quoting Lord of the Rings instead. 

I felt a rush of exhilaration during this exchange, and bounced along cheerfully as I headed home.  

This past year has been rather sleep-deprived, and I haven't been able to read dvar Torahs without nodding off. I can't really listen to shiurim; Ben insists on nursery songs. 

But now I know that I haven't lost it, and that I can reclaim it again when I am allowed to do so.  

A few hours later I was talking to Ta, and told him over my conversation with Luke. Of course he corrected me, that Moshe was punished that he could not enter the Land. 

But Ta was able to add the reason why Moshe was not buried in the Land. When the daughters of Yisro are rescued by him, they identify him as an "Ish Mitzri" to their father. Yosef, however, was described as an "Eved Ivri" by the Saar HaMashkim. Yosef identified himself as a Jew, while Moshe was perceived as an Egyptian. Yosef was zoche to be buried in the Land; Moshe was not allowed. 

Ah, geshmack. 

Keep Your Lips to Yourself

One of my cringey memories is of the time I accidentally kissed the hostess of a simcha on the lips. I was angling for one cheek, she headed the other way, and, well . . . 

Apparently, mine was not a unique situation. Nick Haramis writes he did the same thing to Miuccia Prada. At least I was on friendly terms with lady I smooched; I don't think Miuccia was thrilled when a random fashion editor pecked her mouth. 

The article is about la bise, the French cheek kiss, and how it is doomed now in the age of corona-hygiene. Dr. Fauci thinks that hand shaking should be banned forevermore (yay!), so actual smooching is going the way of the dodo. 

Haramis hysterically relates all the kisses that went wrong. 

. . . when I fail — as I often do — it’s rarely pretty. One time, I got a publicist’s earring lodged between the arm of my glasses and a sprout of unkempt sideburn. Another time, I went in for the initial right-to-right cheek smack (as is customary in Paris) only to realize that the person I’d been introduced to was from Italy (where they usually begin on the opposite side). In another instance, after I’d absolutely nailed the double kiss, my Belgian acquaintance ruined everything by going back in for a triple-dip. The agreed-upon number of kisses varies not only across countries but across regions within countries.

Hey, I'm happy to never air-kiss a roomful of perfumed and makeuped women again. You know how stressful it is to get jostled at a delicate moment and have your painted lips desecrate another's cheek?

But it is, however, simultaneously sad. I have a cousin who gives excellent hugs. You feel amazing afterward. She won't hug me again, probably.