Ding-Ding-Ding, Ahem

I first discovered the world of Jewish bloggers after reading an article in The Jewish Week, in which Bad4 was prominently featured. Curious, I visited her site, was swiftly hooked on her musings, and followed links to other blogs, greedily reading whatever came my way. 

Jewish blogs tend to boast a soothing smoke-screen of anonymity, and I like it this way. Personalities (outside my sphere in reality) and I are able to interact, chat, commiserate, discuss, disagree, violently type each other off, etc., all without having to worry about avoiding them in real life. Bliss.

Enter Bad4's celebrated Ice Cream Meets, of which a few I was able to attend, providing they did not clash with my bedtime. To be introduced to the hailed author of rational female frum thought, along with other like-minded starry-eyed fans, was certainly a pleasure.   

As for the blog, I commented when I felt strongly enough about the discourse, but was content to leave it as such. The idea that I, too, could have a blog (like the rest of the universe; there are probably Martians on blogger.com) did not occur to me until that fateful day, April 1, 2011. 

Bad4, as an April fool's joke, posted that she was engaged, which shook me to my very core (did I mention my high gullibility quotient?) Of course, I was happy for her (really!) but I was deluged with potential ramifications. An engaged blogger, especially one who primarily analyzed the dating scene, was a defunct blogger. Marriage would not improve that situation. 

I had begun to rely on Bad4 as a reliable source of droll prose, and now she was leaving me. I had to deal with the situation with clear-headed logic. 

I would start a blog. 

When I was informed as to Bad4's actual engagement, my coping mechanism for her prank was almost three years old. She was the best of promoters; so hallowed is her name that by linking but a few of my posts, she provided me with a regular reading clientele. For that I am grateful beyond words.

I had never truly realized that writing can be a vocation as gripping and as vital as, say, breathing. Bad4 ushered me into the independent forum of blogging, where I was able to grease my rusty digits into activity, because, quite simply, if you don't use it, you lose it. I therefore hope that even if Bad4 chooses to abandon blogging, she will not leave writing behind. 

(With glass in hand, raised to the happy couple) And so, Bad4 and Right4Bad4, Mazel Tov, and I salute you for the inspiration, encouragement, and the laughs. 

(Glug glug glug) This is non-alcoholic Champagne, right?   

Stairway to Heaven

I had my first experience with unrequited "love" at 21. He (was it Guy #4?) had what I thought was a pleasant evening out; we laughed, we chatted—then he dropped me off, pulling out of my driveway with a frantic shriek of burning rubber. 

I had been hurt and pined for a long time. It didn't help that the dates following were not remotely viable, even if they didn't have a supposed ideal to compete with. 

Of course there were "others" since him; seven years is a long time. There was another two or three that captured my attention, but at each stage and at each age the allure was different. 

If one tries to be aware, one cannot help but change. Reading, listening to shiurim, engaging in deep conversations—these lead to "bam!" moments, epiphanies that launch a thinker onto the next step. Eventually, then there is another lurch forward. Then another. 

Dr. Thomas Hooven ("Nursing a Wound in an Appropriate Setting") was set to start his residency when his girlfriend of twelve years and his fiancée of two ended the relationship, no explanation. He was devastated, to say the least. 

But as time passed, and he was exposed to both the fragility and resilience of life, his understanding slowly morphed. He comprehended why she left, and that it was for the best.

As a couple, we did not fight. Our relationship was conceived from a need for security, and stayed small, quiet and safe. We came together in the disorienting haze of parental conflict, and from the start we shared a tacit assumption that fighting meant losing love . . . 

But now, more than five years later, her response seems less surprising and more diagnostic of why we failed. Our relationship had never developed the vocabulary necessary to express the many colors and intricacies of adult emotion. We had no language for negativity. She must have sensed that, and realized we were headed for serious trouble.

When he did meet his now-wife, he was a better functioning human being, less prone to simplistic perspectives of what a "relationship" means. 

The turmoil I experienced as an intern left me with a deeper understanding of how pain works: how it feels, how it ebbs, and how it leaves you less naïve. I also learned to open up to important facets of life that my previous relationship had locked out: unhappiness, uncertainty, regret. Comfort around feelings like these is crucial in both medicine and intimate relationships; it’s the basis of empathy. I didn’t understand that before my ex left me, and I learned it the hard way.

By the time I met my wife, I was a changed man and a real doctor. And our love developed differently from any I had experienced before. Less like a crystal vase, more like a basketball, our relationship is made for bouncing — for the good and sometimes rough play that modern professional lives generate. We do have fights (oh, yes, we do), but they do not threaten our foundation. They deepen it. 

When I look back to my love-lorn state not so many years ago, I feel like patting my past self condescendingly on the head. Oh, you silly goose.

Ironically, it was from the lips of one of my worst dating experiences that I heard it put into words: We should use our "single" time to improve, to become the best we can be (he still had a long way to go, but that is besides the point). When we are at our best, so can our relationships thrive.      

Zeldies!

Macklemore in his Batman Zeldy

When the kinfauna began to arrive with steady regularity, the closets had to be stocked with emergency attire, and zeldies rule the day.

They are known by many names; footed onesie, footie, footed pajamas, sleepers, one-piece p.j.s, etc. We call them zeldies because when Luke was a rambunctious kiddie in the bungalow colony, the little girl he always ran around with, Zeldy, wore them exclusively. He called the sleepers "zeldies" by association, and the term stuck. Even the in-laws Orgiana and Beru, along with the kiddies, call them "zeldies."

Young 'uns, as we know, can be restless sleepers. They toss, they turn, they flail. The blanket usually can't keep up. One thing is for sure—sleep is deeper when the room is colder as opposed to warmer, but at the same time the child should not be exposed to the chilliness. 

Enter the zeldy! Layered atop a thinner pajama, children remain toasty from the neck to the tippy toes.

Great also for Succos-time, when bulky coats take up space in the not-so-roomy of huts. They provide streamlined warmth. 

The closets in the house are bursting with options, from infant to age 14 (they were being practically given away at Target; Ma couldn't resist).   

"I wanna zeldeeeee!"

Can do. 

There is photographic proof that I used to live in one, but lately I haven't found them personally appealing. But after seeing Macklemore in a Batman zeldy . . .

 

Ooh, maybe I'll get me one.

Battle of the Bulge: Bigger Can't Be Better

The New York Times, "Idea of Healthy Obesity is Tested" by Nicholas Bakalar: 

The idea that there are obese people who are nonetheless healthy may be a myth.

Although some overweight or obese people have normal cholesterol, glucose levels and blood pressure — elements of so-called metabolic health — a new study suggests that obesity by itself increases the risk for heart disease, stroke, diabetes and death.

Researchers analyzed 12 studies that had together followed more than 61,000 adults, most for at least 10 years. About 9 percent of the subjects were obese and metabolically healthy — that is, they had normal LDL, HDL and total cholesterol, along with healthy blood pressure and blood sugar levels. The report was published online last week in Annals of Internal Medicine.

Compared with metabolically healthy people of normal weight, the obese group had a 24 percent increased risk for fatal and nonfatal cardiovascular events like heart attack and stroke, and for death by any cause.

Increasing body mass went along with decreasingly healthy waist circumference, blood pressure and insulin resistance. It was not associated with increases in triglycerides, glucose or LDL cholesterol levels, which are also risk factors for cardiovascular disease.

“The message here is pretty clear,” said the lead author, Dr. Caroline K. Kramer, a researcher at the University of Toronto. “The results are very consistent. It’s not O.K. to be obese. There is no such thing as healthy obesity.”

I'll Have What She's Having

"I want a boy who will learn for one or two years after marriage," she says carefully, "because-it-sets-a-different-tone-in-the-home." She recited that last bit as though she was reading it off an index card. "I think." 

My objection to this statement is not about learning—if one is making an educated decision, based on their personal beliefs and desires, followed through by level-headed financial planning, gesinteheit. My annoyance is that it is a catchphrase, parroted from someone else, who very possibly has sufficient funds to support a son or son-in-law for however long he may desire to learn following his chassanah.   

This girl (one of many) was repeating a statement, not even sure of what she was saying or what the ramifications are, not taking her own self into the equation. Generalities have no place in the individualized, specific cases of each unique marriage. 

Who knows what sort of aggravation to a young struggling couple that simple declaration provided? 

A gal wrote in to a local paper, feeling powerless in her single state, asking how to up her hishtadlus. She was told to go after what she wants, what she needs, what works for her, not anyone else. Then you will have success, she was told.

As for the "different tone"? Let us take a hypothetical: What if this gal married a fellow who is, say, working? With their combined incomes, they are able to thoroughly feather their nest before a money-draining baby comes along. "What sort of 'tone' would be in the house then?" Ma dryly commented. 

One of the fun things about being an "elderly" single is that a thriving savings account is a possibility. There is a couple I know that married "late"; the gal was 30, the fellow also in that ballpark. I would see them by public transportation, smiling cheerfully, as the two spent the commute chatting. 

Then I noticed I didn't see her anymore, only her hubbie. I wondered vaguely what circumstance had changed. One freezing winter morning, I spied her in the driver's seat of a sedan, dropping off her husband to spare him frostbite. In the back was a curly-haired moppet, merrily peering through the frosty window. The couple was conversing leisurely, mellow and at peace. 

Even though I have no idea what they were talking about (she could have been serenely calling him every name a sailor could think of), that seemingly calm, contented image is wedged into my brain. 

Stress is a killer. Financial stress is a big one. I know, for me, that gazing into a beloved's eyes, after the nonspecific phrases of "I'll follow you anywhere," gets old real fast. You have to look around the corner (haroeh es hanolad). It doesn't take much to destroy my nerves, and I've chosen to date in away that will preserve them as much as possible, which still leaves my spleen in pretty bad shape.   

Date for you. Not for the neighbor, not for your morah, not for your rosh yeshivah. Certainly not for a slogan. Date for you. It is your life, your actions you are responsible for. A marriage is about two people, and if you choose to include anyone else into it: Three's a crowd, never mind twenty. 

The Pursuit of Meaningfulness

"Happiness," that elusive prize. Yes, what makes people happy differs on an individual level; my idea of a happy night is a good book and a pre-warmed bed. Ah, sweet joy. Oh, yours is different? 

Emily Esfahani Smith and Jennifer L. Aaker clearly break down the concepts into digestible parts in "Millenial Searchers." Are millenials a bunch of selfish brats, as trends like the "selfie" would attest?

It would seem not. Yes, while most youth hunger for a job that would make them happy, they are really searching for meaningful employment. "Meaning" and "happiness," however, are not the same thing. 

 

"Meaning" means devoting oneself to others, giving of oneself, whereas "happiness" is about the "me," taking. Happiness is fleeting; meaning isn't. For instance, take child-rearing. It is a messy, exhausting, often thankless gig, so while a parent may not necessarily be happy in the point of time when sharing a house with a three-year-old, meaning rules the day. Happiness is based on little things; meaning focuses on the big picture. 

Sadly, it would seem that young people are more self-centered in "good times," and more concerned about others in "bad times." It is a shame that comfort and ease brings out the worst in humanity, whereas if the stock market goes belly-up . . . 

It has always worried me how people suddenly "get it" when "it gets" tough. Do we really have to wait until we are tested?  

Rabbi Ben Ezra

This past motzei Shabbos Rabbi Yisroel Reisman's navi shiur focused on the Ibn Ezra, the biblical commentator who is well-known for his rationalist, p'shat-based perspective. 

Rabbi Avrohom ben Meir Ibn Ezra (1089-1164) did not have an easy life. His wife died young, as did his three daughters. His son converted to Islam, but he eventually returned to Judaism. Because of his controversial viewpoints, the Ibn Ezra was not well liked by many of the rabbinate. 

He was poor to such an extent that he said in a poem, "if I were to sell candles, the sun would never set; if I should deal in shrouds, no one would ever die." He would not accept monetary assistance from his students, stating it was by divine decree that he be in poverty. His students would try elaborate ruses to maneuver some money into his possession, but they would not succeed; circumstances, not even the Ibn Ezra, dictated otherwise.

He spent a restless existence, wandering from Spain to Italy to Israel to France to Britain.

Googling him on Sunday from idle curiosity, Wikipedia informed me that Robert Browning wrote a poem about him, "Rabbi Ben Ezra." It is not really about him, but rather his philosophy. I was struck by the somewhat mussar-dik passages (I didn't insert the entirety of the work since it is quite long):
 
Rejoice we are allied
To That which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
A spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,—a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,—
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale . . .

Not once beat "Praise be Thine!
I see the whole design,
I, who saw power, see now love perfect too:
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do! . . .

Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten, who in ears and eyes
Match me: we all surmise,
They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? . . .

But I need, now as then,
Thee, God, who mouldest men;
And since, not even while the whirl was worst,
Did I,—to the wheel of life
With shapes and colours rife,
Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:

So, take and use Thy work:
Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
My times be in Thy hand!
Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

Browning manages to capture the very essence of belief. Ibn Ezra certainly had more detractors in his lifetime than supporters, and while he was no stranger to heartbreak, to hardship, to hostility, he calmly accepted the Will of Above, and remained steadfast in his own conclusions.   

Rally at the Crossroads

Ann Leary, wife of Denis Leary, published author, was featured in Modern Love: "Rallying to Keep the Game Alive."

It begins with how the family tended to play tennis; fiercely, competitively, often resulting in sore losers. Denis would even "re-invent" the game in his own favor, refusing the acknowledge the accepted rules. 

The two had married young, had two children, and soon were in marital therapy. They decided to stay together for the sake of their children, however.

Yet at one point, they stated, simultaneously, their decision to split. Following the session, they sat down to a companionable lunch.

It was all over, there was nothing to lose, so I decided to serve up my final grievances, the things I felt he needed to know to fully understand that he was the cause of our marriage’s untimely end. I reminded him, in a resigned tone, of the time he did this, the time he did that . . . 

This was how we had come to view our marriage, as a penguin marriage, a partnership devoted to raising children. We had hoped to stick it out until they left the nest, but now it looked as if that would be impossible. So we were just having a last look.

Denis carefully refolded his napkin, and then said: “I’m sorry. If I could change those things I would, but I can’t. They’re in the past. But, I’m sorry.”

I had expected him to cry foul, to react the way he did when I said a questionable tennis shot of his was out. But he just said he was sorry. And I believed him. He had no reason to make up that kind of thing now.

That simple, uncharacteristic apology vanquished all the anger she held against him. They never ended up separating. 

So things got better. We went to our counselor. We went to our movies. We worked at treating each other more fairly. And we started playing a lot of tennis, just the two of us, whenever we could. Only now we played by the rules . . .

Though we were still ultracompetitive, we were becoming intensely proud when the other hit an amazing shot, and we didn’t hate the winner when we lost. We still played to win, but now we could feel joy for the other. We wanted to improve, and now we wanted, were actually thrilled, to see the other get better, too . . .

Denis was serving in this deciding game. He served carefully, not trying to ace it past me for once . . . I hit the ball into his court, and he hit it back into mine. I placed the ball in his court carefully, so carefully, and he placed it back in mine. We rallied, not with the adrenaline-pumping determination to win at all costs, but with the patience and control that came with not wanting it to be over: not the summer, not our son’s childhood, not this game, ever.

Back and forth we sent the ball. And it occurred to me there was some sort of grace in my husband’s form, and I felt it in mine, too, as we both worked to keep the game alive just a little longer, by trying to find each other’s sweet spot, by playing, for once, to the other’s advantage. 

I was struck by this article in contrast to an "Unhitched" profile called "When Nest Emptied, Discontent Entered." In the newspaper itself it was also labeled, "A Wrong Turn Taken at a Crossroads." 

The divorce was apparently at her instigation; while he is now with someone else, he states that he should have put up more of a fight to save the marriage. 

She wanted him to be "more," and blamed her discontent on him while he loved her as is. 

“I’m one of those feminists who is hard to satisfy: I wanted romance, a partner, a provider and a man to do half the domestic work. I looked to Ed for happiness rather than finding it myself.” She thinks this attitude was in part a byproduct of the confusing times when women were told they could have it all. 

Eventually, her harping pushed him away for good, while she had always believed that he would never leave her. Dating is certainly not as fun as she thought it would be. 

Their issues now seem superficial, not good enough reasons for ending the marriage. “I’m not happier, but I’m happy. We both have changed tremendously.”[Boomers divorce so often because they] want too much. 

Battle of the Bulge: The Moment of Truth

I bought a scale. 

I did have a scale, kinda. It was Costco issue, a mechanical model that would recalibrate at whimsy. Additionally, I shared it with the other members of my household, and when it began to stubbornly provide the same number that I was unhappy to see, even after a few weeks of really, really, REALLY watching myself, I went on Amazon and purchased the best reviewed item. 

At least, for that window of shipment time, I could pretend it's the scale's fault.

But I am determined to eradicate, to the best of my ability, any shreds of denial. In general. What better way than to have my own personal scale parked in my bathroom, casting a judgmental eye every time I enter? 

Maybe I should leave it in the kitchen. 

Anywho, the item is quite accurate. Too accurate. I wonder what my weight would be if I cut my hair. 

In any case, I am not sure if weighing myself daily is a good idea (eat one little thing with sodium and the scale lovingly measures every ounce of water weight) but the die is cast. Studies have established that those who weigh themselves daily stick to the "path" with far greater success. 

The scale seems to enjoy messing with me; it is impossible that I gained six pounds in two days, considering what I eat (mostly plant life). 

Nope, this wasn't a good idea. It's making me neurotic. 

The time to weigh oneself should be first thing in the morning, before consuming any food, even a glass of water.

And today's number is . . .  

Damn you! 

Luke popped in for a visit, and due to his recent re-interest in weight maintenance, blithely asked the way to my new toy. 

"It's mean," I warned him. "It'll make you cry." 

He waved a dismissive hand, and pranced up the stairs to my bathroom. He emerged rather deflated. 

"Your scale is mean," he affirmed. 

The next morning I gingerly step onto it, and it triumphantly flashes a string of perfectly reasonable numbers. 

"You have been spared today," I magnanimously decree. "This is not the morning I throw you out the window."  

Credit Can't Buy Love

It may seem very late in the game, but I decided I have to get a credit card. 

I've always preferred debit, since my inability to do basic math would easily have me overspend. But Ta has been insistent that I should build up good credit history for future use, and I went online to apply for an American Express Blue Everyday Card. 

I merrily clicked and typed, and was then stunned to be shot down. 

You rejected me? ME? The gerudeh mechel? I was overdrawn ONCE by $34 in five years! Ever since then, the good girl! Well, who needs you! There are other cards out there, better cards, cards that know what I'm worth! You didn't reject me, I reject you! 

To add insult to injury, I came home that day to find a credit card application from American Express Blue Everyday waiting for me. Do they know how to rub salt in the wound.

I find it funny how my reaction is pretty much the same when it comes to dating. I go out with a guy, he's pleasant enough but I'm not excited; I decide to be a mature adult and be willing to go out again. But he says no. While it appears as though I am pining after him, I am actually doing a dance on the inside. I get the image of the nebach.

It just goes to show that in those cases, it has nothing to do with the heart, only the ego.