Shidduch Lit: Italian for Beginners

I've become impossible to please when it comes to romantic fluff. 

The basic structure of such a novel is to involve a very easily avoidable misunderstanding. Like, seriously, a five-year-old could have navigated this successfully. And Italian for Beginners is no different. 

Additionally, it has that annoying trope of "busy American who doesn't know how to live visits an exotic locale, imbibes the wisdom of the natives (who are all waiters, and yet live in lovely apartments), and discovers the meaning of life." 

However, the book had enough relatability that I will plug it here. 

Not to give a spoiler here, so if you don't want one then do not read on, but our heroine is a single woman in her mid-30s who has become the despair of her religious family (Catholic, not Jewish, but the emphasis on marriage and kids is near identical). She is humiliated at her younger sister's wedding despite her attempts to retain her dignity. 

She also has a lot of childhood issues with abandonment that should really have been addressed earlier with a therapist, and a lot of information was unnecessarily withheld from her on that subject, but at some point she realizes that she cannot be in a relationship if she doesn't know herself. 

Now, this point is a pet peeve of mine. How can people select life partners if they don't really know themselves? A lot of what we do involves following a societal script, without much questioning. Bad4 was the first to dryly proclaim that she would get a man without blow-drying her hair every morning, and many of us choose to slightly rock the boat in multitude of harmless ways. 

For instance, there had been some mumblings during my single time for my love of colorful makeup (which, I attest, was still classy and tasteful). Han loves the painted version of me (which I rarely apply nowadays, being a dishrag of a mommy) and even recently commented that so many girls aren't into strong makeup—why is that?

Because Han and I chose to express ourselves as we did (he's a rather snazzy dresser), that was one aspect that showed how our personalities could align. We didn't suppress our identities for the sake of appearances; our appearances reflected who we were.

I see other frum girls harmlessly stepping out of line and I love it. I love how they follow their passions, and also marry happily (I'm assuming happily) as they are.  

This, Too, Shall Be Forgotten

My memory is, pardon my French, in the toilet. 

My brain is keeping only primary processing needs online. I am not, as Data would say, operating at optimal parameters. 

Han tells me that I said something and I have no memory of the conversation. He could so easily gaslight me. Maybe he has? It's possible.

I was recently scrolling through old dating posts and found it amusing that I didn't remember some of the incidents. Sure, there were some guys I remembered, but some happenings were completely erased from my memory banks. 

At the time, these occurrences were so frustrating, so all consuming, and now—they've vanished.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I haven't forgotten everything. I still have that ability to hold a grudge for nearly forever. Yes, yes, I'm working on it.

But I'm glad to see that some occurrences that had upset me so much once upon a time have faded into the ether, of no significance.

Experiences

Han and I have been mulling the significance of "experience." 

For instance, when Han was dating, he had a married friend inform him that he should be focusing on such-and-such (rather shallow criteria) and he should be trusted because, you know, he's married. 

But what his friend considered sufficient for marriage was insufficient for Han. So while his friend may have been married, his experience was not enough to be a guiding force for Han. 

And then, with Han and I now on the other side, having accumulated a wealth of dating experience between us, no one wants our advice. To have dated for so long was strictly our faults, no one wants our insight, thank you very much, have a good day. 

I thought of myself, when I went through the harrowing and traumatizing experience of childbirth (no, I did not find it "empowering" at all, it's called "back labor"), I had a whole new respect for every other woman who has done it. Especially the 20-year-olds. Never mind the teenagers. 

There are some experiences that others cannot really understand, even though they think they do. Like loss and grief. Until you've been there, you cannot chap. 

I have my judgy moments, my cut-and-dried proclamations about certain subjects, but when I've finally donned those shoes and taken a walk around the block, all I can say is "Oh." The less we know, the more we think we know. As time goes on, the more I see, the more I realize that I have to shut up.