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.

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.

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.

The Patient Baker

A number of months ago, I began to dabble in sourdough. I've already meddled with homemade sauerkraut, so this seemed the natural next step. 

The premise of sourdough is this: the commercial yeast we use today is a fairly new invention. Before then, "yeast" was simply flour and water that was left to ferment. Then it would be combined with more flour and water in order to make bread. 

That is why, in Mitzrayim, the Hebrews left in such a rush before their bread could rise—bread then needed a long time to rise. The first proof can take twelve hours. 

When one first starts to research, it can be quite daunting. There are words like "autolyse" and "levain" and "oven spring" and "open crumb."  There are calculated percentages for "hydration," down to specifics like "67%." I'm bad enough at math, that was almost enough to completely terrify me. 

I finally had enough with the overly complicated instructions, and decided to go about the simplest methods. It took three weeks, but I finally had a frothy jar of starter. I went with whole grain recipes only, as white flour tends to mess up my stomach. 

The results weren't technically pretty, but they were tasty (even Ben likes it!). It takes time and effort, of course. There's a method called "stretch and fold" when dealing with the dough, directions on how to "develop gluten" or something, then figuring out how to manipulate dough that tends to be very wet and blobby (I'm trying challah next. I'm going to rip my hair out). 

I've joined a number of sourdough groups for further tips to hone my nonexistent skills, as have other newbies who've decided to pick up the hobby now that they've been quarantined. 

Some people are adorable. "My starter is five days old, it's not bubbling, what's wrong?!?!?" Five days? I had to fuss over my initial starter for weeks before it would pass "the float test" (don't ask). 

Sourdough is an old world food. Instant yeast was developed as the world began to speed up. The old world was a slow world, when everything took forever and no one went anywhere. 

Fermentation reintroduced me to the concept of patience. Good things come to those who wait. I sort of learned that after dating for bloody forever, but sourdough helps to reinforce the message. 

I've noticed that the sourdough is easier on my digestion—my stomach feels good after the Shabbos meal, when beforehand it would grumble a bit. Sourdough ferments the flour, which breaks it down better; there's a theory that the instant yeast is the culprit for the modern epidemic of gluten intolerance. 

I froze my starter over Pesach, sticking it on the shelf in the freezer with the whole grain wraps and muffins, and now I'm coaxing it back to life. 

I had planned on making sourdough challah this week, but so far there's only a few sluggish bubbles. It's not ready yet. So I may have to wait until next week, and that's ok. I'm itching to try a new recipe, but one can't force things. It'll be ready when it's ready. 

I can't control that.  

Religious Grieving

My sister lent me her copy of Modern Loss by Rebecca Sofer and Gabrielle Birkner. The book is a compilation of personal stories about death, as well as cartoons, and opens each section with continuations of Sofer's or Birkner's narrative. 

What struck me was that although Sofer and Birkner are Jewish, and maintained (to some extent) the Jewish rituals like shiva, there was no mention of religion as a source of comfort.  

Simultaneously, I was reading a novel by Elinor Lipman called The Inn on Lake Devine, in which there is a tragic death. There was this scene that stood out to me: 

I asked him if he believed in life everlasting and all that. 

"Do you?" 

I lied. "Sure." 

He said, "I wish I did." 

I told him I didn't either but had wanted to say the right thing. I said, "I think religion was invented to deal with death. It's when it helps the most."  

The narrator, by the way, is Jewish. 

I am not a heretic; I don't believe religion was invented to deal with death. But religion most certainly helps. 

Many other vignettes in the book mention shiva, or other Jewish death rituals, but there is no conversation about how that connects to a greater plan. 

After Ma died, my niece was asking worriedly what Babi had died of. My sister explained, but then clarified, quoting the family guru: "But Babi didn't die because she was sick. She died because it was her time." 

Viewing the vacuum Ma left behind, at times I feel despair at the impossibility of ever adequately filling it and wonder, "Why did she have to die?" But for the most part, I'm at peace with it. 

My grandparents dealt with such losses that boggle the mind—nor were they all Holocaust inflicted (Babi never knew her father; he died when she was a baby. Her mother died on the table after a misdiagnosis before the war). Perhaps, that is why I mostly experience gratitude—amongst the sadness—for the years I did have with my mother.

There is comfort when one abdicates control.    

We Can Do It!

I do not have a math mind, despite my math minded parentage. If you ask me to add two numbers together, I gaze vacantly into the distance and hope you go away. 

Oddly, though, I aced my Regents. My high school teacher had called up my parents, worriedly reporting I was falling asleep during her classes (I didn't fall asleep in class in general, but her voice was so monotonous), warning them I would be unprepared for the exam. 

"I'll be fine," I attempted to reassure them. "I've been doing the practice tests. I've got this covered." 

They did not believe me. After all, they knew I didn't have a math mind. They took away my tv. MY TV! The trauma!

Yet they didn't realize that every spare moment I had, including recess, I was doing practice problems (I was voted "most likely to do homework during lunch"). The sheer repetition taught me better than my poor teacher could. To my parents' (and Luke's) shock, I got a 99. 

I suppose I knew I was slacking off in class, and that I could do better. But some kids need to be told that they can do better, and then they do, writes David Kirp.  

 

I think this same premise applies even to adults. We're here on this earth to improve, right? To overcome our negative innate qualities. To "strive for excellence." 

And yet I am surprised by how many fellow frum Jews shrug defeatedly and blame nature, rather than taking personal responsibility. 

It takes awareness. It means one day, choosing not to operate on automatic pilot, acting instead with deliberate thought.  Until it becomes automatic.

It can be done. I believe in you, and me. 

Sugar, with Boundaries

Due to a calamity that devolved following a bout of antibiotics, I find it difficult to consume sugar. Not just added, processed sugar, but natural sugars too. I can't have fruit every day, or else my stomach complains. It's very very sad. 

I've been off regular consumption for nearly two years. It sucks. Loving sweet used be part of my identity. Now sweet spurns my adoration, and gives a kick to the gut to boot. 

When I think I can handle it, I'll have a piece of bundtcake on Shabbos. Now, you'll have to understand that I waited all week for that freakin' bundtcake (made with whole wheat pastry flour), before my stomach went to pot. No sugar during the week, only on Shabbos, and it was bundtcake. 

ihearteating.com

I would carve myself a generous slice and enjoy. Now, I carve myself a tiny slice. I savor it. Then I "straighten out" the cake and have another bite. But then it's too much sweet. I have to pack it away. I pack it away. Mind boggling. 

David Leonhardt advocates a month without sugar. The problem with sugar that is ubiquitous in nearly all processed foods is that it messes with the palate. The tongue has high expectations of food, demanding an uber-shot of sugar. But when the brain is starved of such sugar levels, the palate reboots. It requires less to be satisfied. 

I would like to remind my audience, again, that I love sugar. It has been good to me when I needed a pick-me-up. My love goes hand in hand with Paul Rudnick's, who is well aware of the dangers of sugar but, quite simply, doesn't care. 

I am not advocating leaving it completely, forever. I can't even recommend quitting it for a month; unless galvanized by snarling intestines, I don't see that happening. 

It's your call how to limit it. Drink only water. Analyze nutrition facts and opt for a less-sugar cereal. Keep chocolate and cake to Shabbos.   

TGIF

Whitney Cummings, comedienne, discusses her experience "hanging out with wolves":

Each wolf was doing something different. One was digging, one was pacing, one was howling, one was eating, one was grooming itself, one was sleeping, one was hiding, one was hanging out in its den, one was digging on top of its den and one was intently and seemingly menacingly staring at us.

Cate Salansky, our wolf expert and guide, asked me, “Which one do you think is the alpha?”

Duh, I thought. This woman really took me for an idiot. “The one who’s howling,” I said. “That’s obviously the leader.”

“Nope.”

All right, I thought, then it must be the one that is eating.

Wrong again.

I went on to guess every wolf except the alpha. Turns out, the alpha wolf can usually be found sleeping. Sleeping. Didn’t it need to bark and growl and intimidate people to show everyone that it was the alpha? No; overcompensating is more of a people thing. Ages ago, I read somewhere, probably in a self-help book I bought after a nasty breakup, that truly powerful beings don’t need to prove how powerful they are. This made no sense to me until I saw it in action with the wolves. When you’re truly in control, you don’t need to tap on people’s shoulders constantly to remind them how in control you are.

Be Flexible, Not Fixed

This week is all about going back from the wrong path and starting again. I'm surprised how many (frum!) Jews aren't willing to acknowledge how they have the power to alter much—not by trying to save the world, but by tackling their own minds and actions. 

Studies are showing that "DNA is not destiny"—in terms of heart disease, for instance, a good lifestyle makes up for bad genes, while a bad lifestyle negates good genes. And one didn't have to be an angel, either; "It looks as if the biggest protective effect by far came from going from a terrible lifestyle to one that was at least moderately good."

Dr. Jane Brody profiled Brooklyn borough president Eric Adams, who completely reversed his lifestyle and successfully handled his diabetes diagnosis in the span of three months. 

Rather than proselytize, Mr. Adams prefers to teach by example, introducing people to healthy foods and providing helpful information. “I don’t want to become an annoying vegan,” he said. “My hope is that by having people focus on adding healthy things to their plates, rather than unhealthy things, they’ll eventually only have room for the healthy ones.”

Sur mei'ra, v'asei tov.   

Via cookingclassy

Very often, we create limiting beliefs and we stubbornly cling to them. Like Aya Cash: "The First Time I Ate a Vegetable (I Was 22)." 

For years, I had been telling everyone that I didn’t eat vegetables. I believed I hated them. I even took pride in the fact that I could fill my body with junk and not gain weight. I secretly, ridiculously, bizarrely thought my anti-vegetable stance made me intriguing. Unique. Idiosyncratic.

But sometimes we tell stories about ourselves that aren’t true. Sometimes stories we think are fixed are actually flexible. . .

I realized that I had determined a defining characteristic based on who I was at 6. I had not tried again for 16 years.

What else had I decided about myself that might not be true anymore? What had I decided about other people? That piece of lettuce was my first recognition that my identity was not set, but malleable.

I used to think belly button piercings were cool. I used to date men who didn’t like me. I used to smoke. I had never wanted to get married; I thought it wasn’t “who I was.” But a few years ago, I found myself feeling otherwise. This didn’t mean I was a different person. But the narrative I had about myself had changed.

Would I have learned this in other ways? Probably. But that bite opened me up to the possibility that change can happen even when you’re not trying; you just have to stay curious.

TGIF

Accept the Inevitable

"If you take raw garlic daily," I had told her confidently, "you don't get colds." 

I expected too much of that garlic. It kept me hale and hearty through a trip overseas (I usually return with a leaky nose), through a week (and change) of jet lag, but then . . . 

Leaving work on a Friday afternoon with a song in my heart (and stuck in my head), I couldn't understand why nervous preoccupation gradually edged out my cheeriness. 

The cause? A suspicious rippling in my belly. (A gut feeling! Get it?) A stomach bug cometh, I realized with dread. No. No! I would not accept this quietly! I was going to fight! 

Three times that night, I downed raw chopped and aerated garlic. The next morning I awoke smug—the queasiness and pangs were gone. 

Except now I had a fever. Ha ha. Well, some more garlic then, eh? 

I hobbled about wrapped in a blanket for the rest of the day. I felt crummy, but I have felt crummier. 

Sunday dawned fresh with promise. Except my nose was oddly drippy. Allergies, I thought confidently. My room just needs a thorough vacuuming, that's all. It can't be a cold. I garlicked like mad! 

It was a cold. Good thing I stocked up on Kleenex lotion tissues the prior week. I fished out the neti pot and knocked back echinacea. And raw garlicked some more. 

I must admit that while it was definitely a cold, it was a mild one. My head didn't feel stuffed with cotton wool, my throat didn't hurt, I coughed but a few times. 

My nose was rubbed raw—a Rudolph honker can't ever be avoided—and I did terrorize passerby with a few violent sneezes.  

I was meant to be sick. No wiggling out of it this time.  

Last and Only Stop

My train was canceled. So was the following, and the one after that. The next train was in an hour, and it was delayed as well. 

I resignedly walked over to the subway, and hopped on (more like wedged in). After a few stops, the announcer blares that this train will be moving onto another line; I clamber up stairs and escalators to transfer. Eventually, I arrive close enough to my destination, and plod over. 

My time of arrival? The same as if I had waited at the original station.

I heard this concept from Rabbi David Fohrman—the end result will be the same, but the story could have happened in a multitude of ways. Yosef was supposed to end up in Mitzrayim and be in a position of wealth and power that would ensure his family's survival. Yet did his brothers have to chuck him into the pit? No. For Yosef to become vizier, matters could have unfolded in a multitude of scenarios.

In Judaism, the ends don't justify the means. I read this story this past week, related by Rabbi Ephraim Nisenbaum: 

An outreach organization once asked Rabbi Elazar Shach if they could host an event that would not necessarily be in the spirit of halacha, but would attract many people who would be open to outreach. Rav Shach told the leaders of the organization, "Hashem does not need you to help people become more religious. He wants you to observe the Torah faithfully. If you could help people while remaining faithful to the Torah—that is wonderful. But hosting this kind of evening is not being faithful to Torah, regardless of outcome." 

I heard it from Rabbi Moshe Shapiro: If a person will become frum, he will become frum. Just don't get in Hashem's way. 

In our need to control, we may err in our well-meaning intentions. Being honest for "someone's own good," that ruinously hurts feelings—which is flat-out forbidden. Transgressing mitzvos for "the bigger picture." Claiming that one way of meeting a spouse is better than another, when it doesn't matter—all shidduchim are from Hashem, no matter how they play out.

As Gandi said: Truth is one. Paths are many. 

Rethink Our Vexation

. . . What good was berating women for being single or for the growing divorce rate if men were not ready or did not have the skills to deal with being married?

The community leaders got together to discuss the issue. They agreed that there were huge problems around arranging suitable marriages and keeping them together. They agreed that they must get together again and discuss the problems. They reconvened and discussed that the problems were growing and that solving them was a community priority. After all, a community is made up from the building blocks of solid families. They planned our a series of seminars to brainstorm ideas and engage the community. The community duly held the meetings and agreed that the problem was now of significant magnitude and that Something Must Be Done. They concluded that it was important that young people should get married. They would discuss further with experts. The experts agreed that the situation was dire and that doing nothing was Not An Option. If nothing was done then things would go from bad to worse. Action was demanded. They would reconvene to discuss the matter. 

Sounds like a frum gal describing the *snort* "shidduch crisis," no? Except this is an excerpt from Love in a Headscarf. Yep, the author's Muslim. 

Singledom was growing around me as well — women across wider society seemed to be suffering. We moped collectively at work. Emma was single. So were Elaine and Nicola. The men, peculiarly, were all married or in long-term relationships. Why suddenly this universal explosion of female singleness?

There we have it: all women, not merely the frummies, are supposedly having it hard. The "age gap" theory can evaporate on that alone. If those outside of the frum world, who do not have "freezers," who possess a multitude of social venues to mix and mingle—if they are finding it hard to land a dude, how does it follow that it is the shidduch system's "fault"? 

The "shidduch system" is merely one method, among many, of meeting someone eligible. Hishtadlus means trying; there is no doing more or doing less. What is perceived as "required effort" depends on the individual (just heard this in a shiur).  

When the Muslim shidduch-system failed her (their protocol sounds so similar), Janmohamed tried alternatives, like speed dating, online dating, and even asking a fellow out: no joy. She did find her spouse (and he was worth the wait); they were introduced by a mutual Muslim friend.  

I think us ladies—all ladies—have to rethink this. If "all" women are on the search for longer (and their future husbands are too), perhaps this is merely indicative of a global shift. As Janmohamed writes, previous generations married for status and security; the current hungers for spiritual connections.

Why are we frantic? Because an arbitrary deadline has been drawn in the sand. Because dating and dating and dating is emotionally draining. Because we do wish for that special someone who isn't in the market for a brood mare, like he may have been once upon a time. 

We don't cook how we used to; we don't work how we used to; we don't dress how we used to. Heck, we've got indoor plumbing.

Why should we marry how we used to?   

I am Teflon

All (at least most) of us have our triggers. Some barbed remarks slide off like a bundtcake from a well-oiled pan; others stick like burnt paprikash. 

The comments that float unheedingly by, while barbed, don't excite the immune system the way others do—those flip, supposedly innocent words that awaken the self-questioning monster within. 

As the Good Book (The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy) says: 

One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right?   

Ford Prefect (an alien) deduces: 

At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behavior. If human beings didn't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths would probably seize up. After a few months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favor of a new one. If they don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working.

Think once. Think twice. I am so very, very frightened of brainlessly opening my mouth and unintentionally awakening another's insecurities. The worrisome part is that one can't know what may be another's perceived weakness. We all have our baggage, and my baggage is not yours.

 

In Henry Alford's "The Remarkable Shelf Life of the Offhand Comment," he opens with an incident where he was thoughtlessly admonished to be "a little more effusive." As I can relate, that critique haunted him for years, haunting all social interactions. 

As the article relates, there are a few types of shots: 1) the statements that reinforce our personal fears; 2) the remarks that make us question our beliefs/taste/self; 3) comments that are so mind-boggingly stupid that they trigger sensations of superiority and, in turn, guilt. 

To illustrate type 1: I have—bless genetics—epic dark circles. I am familiar with every means to cover them up, yet for the most part some purple leaches through the layered concealer. I receive plenty remarks casting aspersions upon my night's sleep or general health to shake my faith in ever looking good. 

To overcome these shots, one can 1) Be snarky. However, in my experience, that rarely achieves anything. Usually the other party is blankly humorless, and will not grasp the point. 2) My preference, which is to be compassionate. While it is not an excuse, when under stress, disciplining the mind-mouth connection can be difficult, and the "better left unsaid" slides out anyway. We've all had our moments. Cut 'em some slack. 

As for those transgressors who make it quite obvious that they are being bi—, um, catty, all I can think is "nebach." How sad that they are such miserable human beings that nastiness gives them an ego boost. 

A dangerous possibile outcome is grudge nursing. Grudges can become part of one to the point that shedding it is the equivalent of cutting off a toe. Let it go. Please let it go. For all our sakes.    

One at a Time

On the his first episode on M*A*S*H, Major Charles Emerson Winchester III pompously intones, "I do one thing at a time, I do it very well, and then I move on." 

 

It turns out, the fathead was right. If I supposedly "multi-task," incompetency reigns. 

I can't listen to a shiur and surf Facebook. I can't text and maintain a conversation. Preparing too many dishes at one time rarely ends well. 

There are many who claim they can multi-task. Note that they claim. Try reading this story without distraction. Can you? Will you recall what you have read? Will you have processed it?

Earlier research out of Stanford revealed that self-identified “high media multitaskers” are actually more easily distracted than those who limit their time toggling.

So, in layman’s terms, by doing more you’re getting less done.

Perhaps you are familiar with the person who is always busy, yet doesn't seem to accomplish anything? 

But monotasking, also referred to as single-tasking or unitasking, isn’t just about getting things done.

Not the same as mindfulness, which focuses on emotional awareness, monotasking is a 21st-century term for what your high school English teacher probably just called “paying attention.”

I have learned, at my work, to complete each task one by one. Then I don't come back, spend a minute remembering where I left off, then forget that one vital action necessary to prevent my having to start it all over again. 

As much as people would like to believe otherwise, humans have finite neural resources that are depleted every time we switch between tasks, which, especially for those who work online, Ms. Zomorodi said, can happen upward of 400 times a day, according to a 2016 University of California, Irvine study. “That’s why you feel tired at the end of the day,” she said. “You’ve used them all up.”

The term “brain dead” suddenly takes on a whole new meaning.

Multi-tasking is not productive at all, because not only are the jobs not done right, one is rendered unproductive in the process. 

There is pleasant satisfaction in a job well done and complete, von Pfetten writes. That reminded me of the "debt snowball method," paying off the smallest debt first even though that seems contradictory to financial savvy. When those in hock are able to cross off an item from their list, they tend to be so galvanized by that signal of progress that they throw themselves wholeheartedly into further headway. 

Kids, of course, tend to interrupt mono-tasking. In cases where tackling one job at a time is difficult, just try to do it whenever possible, like reading offspring a book while the phone is elsewhere, the article recommends. 

“Practice how you listen to people,” Ms. McGonigal said. “Put down anything that’s in your hands and turn all of your attentional channels to the person who is talking. You should be looking at them, listening to them, and your body should be turned to them. If you want to see a benefit from monotasking, if you want to have any kind of social rapport or influence on someone, that’s the place to start. That’s where you’ll see the biggest payoff.” 

The Gift of Sight

There is seeing, and there is seeing.

Mild example: Eewok is (finally!) a reader, and she is eager to curl up in bed with a book, which then necessitates a nightstand and lamp. In my error, I got her the Kosher Lamp first, before it had an official base; it took a crack-inducing tumble. 

Now she requires a new lamp, but I was adamant about a nightstand first. Orgiana repeatedly emerged from Homegoods empty-handed and frustrated. I considered possible obsolete pieces about the house that I could lend until the ideal was discovered. 

Whilst cleaning my room on Sunday (more like "half-heartedly hanging up tossed aside skirts") my glance fell on a dark corner. Tucked away, under a desk, was my sister's old white wicker nightstand, complete with shelf. 

You MORON. 

See what I mean about seeing and seeing? 

Sometimes it is based on a frame of mind—there are moments when we are so fakocht that even though our eyes are open, we are so caught up in the fog of our own mind that our vision is fuzzy. 

Sam Anderson, in "Letter of Recommendation," suggests the joys of looking out the window. (From my serious kinfauna-sitting days, taking a baby to a window was a lifesaver; they were usually entranced by the outdoor view.)

As Anderson explains, outside is out of our control, unlike selecting images or video from the internet. As a Jew, I still need to be reminded of that: We've got no control. 

The second message he imparts is this: After witnessing a car crash into a fence, he took a dislike to the driver, neatly boxing and labeling him. Yet what he saw showed something completely different. 

Rear Window

I judge even while trying not to judge. Dan l'kaf zechus is so bloody hard. Yet one day, one gets to a point where assuming the worst of people is more of an effort than assuming the best. One feels better too. 

Then one wonders why she would have opted for bitterness and wrinkles, when the alternative is so much easier on the skin. 

Books on Change, II

The next informative text was Willpower: Rediscovering The Greatest Human Strength by Roy Baumeister and John Tierney. 

These two delve into the science of self-control: Why it is important, how much we have of it, how it is fueled. 

They posit a theory that humans are social for survival purposes, and in order to get along, one needs TONS of self-control. We can't all do whatever we want and expect to have pleasant familial/neighborly interactions.

They say, up front, that it is impossible to alter more than one behavior at a time, so don't go there (as our mussar seforim insist). This New Year should not begin with more than one item that requires fixing. Whether it is an unhealthy behavior like smoking or a toxic behavior like impatience/screaming, only one can apply at a time. 

The brain does not have separate categories for willpower; there is only one well to draw from, no matter the application. If one exhausts the supply by not killing a co-worker, for instance, h/she may come home that evening and fight with the spouse over a mildly annoying quirk. 

Additionally, one must we well-nourished and well-rested in order to have self-control since—get this—it feeds on glucose. Many who commit criminal acts have been found to be hypoglycemic (ergo the "Twinkie Defense"). That's why implementing self-control can often be exhausting; it sucks the life out of you by plowing through your physical energy supply. (Before you get excited, the best sources of glucose are from sensible proteins and vegetables, not Oreos.)

Deliciously, a lot of their scientific conclusions are echoed by our rabbanim, as heard in this shiur (cheat sheet: instead of telling oneself, "I will not eat that kakosh," say instead, "I'll have kakosh later." That fools the brain into a form of satiety, and, when the opportunity to kakosh arises, one won't necessarily even want it anymore. For reals). 

Cool, huh?

The book is jammed with more awesome revelations, like self-control leads to good self-esteem, not participation trophies.  

Books on Change, I

To get you in the fasting spirit, here's Rabbi Daniel Glatstein. 

Ah, New Years Resolutions. How they suck. 

Most of us would like to change for the better. But it's so darn hard. So I shall share books I have read recently that I found rather illuminating on the subject. I believe that if we know how our brains and bodies work, we can work with them. 

The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business by Charles Duhigg examines the science of habits, how they operate, and how they can be changed. 

He brings a number of examples from businesses to personal addictions (he was not very sympathetic to gamblers and the like), and how bad habits were overcome by altering one minor detail which resulted in a chain reaction. 

Habits work like so: 

1) Cue. 

2) Routine. 

3) Reward. 

To change a habit, one has to pinpoint what the cue is; then the mindless routine can be replaced. REPLACED. Not ignored, not overcome, but REPLACED. (Sur mei'ra v'asei tov. It's not enough to stop a behavior; one must be active in doing better as well.)

I was hoping he would provide a simple cause and effect when it came to, say, overeating (cough cough), but no such luck. I had to figure it out myself. And I did. 

Since most days of the week I arrive home at dinnertime, my routine is usually

1) Walk through door. 

2) Eat. 

3) Be nourished and satisfied. 

However, that cue is the same on Friday afternoons when I come home early, or following Sunday outings, or even applied to siblings' front doors. 

So I consciously attempted to replace the routine: Drink a glass of water. Most of the time I'm thirsty anyway, and I feel that same pleasant nourishment and satisfaction when I get hydrated. 

The whole book is quite fascinating, even though I provided the cheat sheet. 

Do No Harm

I am fascinated by history. If one analyzes a situation with the long view, one can see patterns. 

 

Like the pendulum swing. Society accepts one extreme, and then rebound to the other; eventually, it slows and settles into the center.

The past fifty years or so, science did away with nature. Butter was shunned for margarine. Dairy was fiercely de-fatted (I want my childhood years, sentenced to skim milk, back). Every minor complaint can be "fixed" with medication or surgery. 

Butter is back. Fatty dairy is back (I'm making up for lost time). As for being "fixed"? 

A few years ago I was seized by a violent sinus infection. I inched into an ENT's office, tears in eyes. He scribbled up, along with antibiotics, a prescription for Vicodin. 

"Um, that's okay," I demurred. "I watch House." 

He looked at me in scorn. "Why should you suffer if you don't have to?" 

I gingerly picked up the prescription. I did not use it. 

Doctors happy-pen method with opiods have led to addictions and overdoses, and now they are considerably cutting back; sufferers will have to suffer.

In general, the policy for vigilant medicine and treatment is easing off. The required annual checkup is off. Screenings and tests that were once necessary are now under the "Weeeell . . ." category. Even treatments for certain conditions or illnesses are found to be not as vital as once thought.

"Are Good Doctors Bad for Your Health?" by Ezekiel Emanuel highlights the current quo: 

One of the more surprising — and genuinely scary — research papers published recently appeared in JAMA Internal Medicine. It examined 10 years of data involving tens of thousands of hospital admissions. It found that patients with acute, life-threatening cardiac conditions did better when the senior cardiologists were out of town. And this was at the best hospitals in the United States, our academic teaching hospitals. As the article concludes, high-risk patients with heart failure and cardiac arrest, hospitalized in teaching hospitals, had lower 30-day mortality when cardiologists were away from the hospital attending national cardiology meetings. And the differences were not trivial — mortality decreased by about a third for some patients when those top doctors were away.

Truly shocking and counterintuitive: Not having the country’s famous senior heart doctors caring for you might increase your chance of surviving a cardiac arrest.

He cites an Israeli study: 

This is not the only recent finding that suggests that more care can produce worse health outcomes. A study from Israel of elderly patients with multiple health problems but still living in the community tried discontinuing medicines to see if patients got better. Not unusual for these types of elderly patients, on average, they were taking more than seven medications.

In a systematic, data-driven fashion, the researchers discontinued almost five drugs per patient for more than 90 percent of the patients. In only 2 percent of cases did the drugs have to be restarted. No patients had serious side effects and no patients died from stopping the drugs. Instead, almost all of the patients reported improvements in health, not to mention the saving of drug money.

And people wonder why I'm afraid of doctors. 

Despite often repeating the mantra “First, do no harm,” doctors have difficulty with doing less — even nothing. We find it hard to refrain from trying another drug, blood test, imaging study or surgery.

We forget the body's capacity for healing. It doesn't always always need help. But today, with so much within human control, we forget that we don't always have all the solutions. 

People say there is a "shidduch crisis." Which means, it has to be fixed! But what if we can't? Has any sort of new initiatives actually changed the marriage rates? If anything, it seems as though divorce—"marriage mortality"—is on the rise. 

A new book (Hoping to Help) analyzes the effectiveness of volunteers nobly assisting in third-world countries. It's not always wonderful. 

Students may take advantage of the circumstances to attempt tasks well beyond their expertise. Seasoned professionals may cling to standards of practice that are irrelevant or impossible to sustain in poor countries. Unskilled volunteers who do not speak the language may monopolize local personnel with their interpreting needs without providing much of value in return.

So who did I think of? 

Shadchanim.

It really is unpleasant trying to politely fend off the misplaced fervor of a bullying matchmaker who barely knows you yet insists you "must" go out with someone. Yes, they say they are "trying to help," but how is this helpful? Congratulations: My bowels clench every time I receive an e-mail or phone call from someone chirpily claiming to be a "shadchan."

Do no harm. Like Chevi says.