Tuesday, December 23, 2008

The Yenta. Part I of Mr. F. and I

How to meet Mr. Right?  My sister and I have thought a lot about this, my sister perhaps more so, since she is 8 years older and still single (but Hot and Single.  Don’t you forget that N!)  We are of the opinion that there are three options open to us for meeting men

  1. You meet them the old fashioned way.  You go to some venue, you are introduced, you start chatting things up, one thing leads to another, and then BAM!  You are married.  This requires that you are social, that you “put yourself out there.”  This can be an exhausting process, with few dividends.    
  2. You go online.  You put up an attractive picture and try to make you profile as alluring and interesting as possible in order to draw in suitable mates.  Unfortunately, more often than not, you get a bunch of wierdos.  My sister has ventured on line, and let me tell you, it is a scary, scary place to be meeting men.
  3. The Yenta.  Not an actually Jewish matchmaking mamma yenta, but someone you know, who knows someone else, who can hook you up.

 

When I first interviewed with my advisor for my graduate student fellowship, he asked if I was single.  On telling him that I was, he said something to the effect of, “well, that’s unfortunate.  You won’t find anyone to date down here.”

 

So I resigned myself to 2 more odd years of singledom.  Not a big drop in the bucket compared to the previous ten years of singledom.  I figured the only way I would get a date while I was getting my masters was through divine intervention.  The mountain was going to have to come to Mohammad. 

 

I had been here, at the-edge-of-the-world, for a couple of months before I heard that a single boy of dateable age was moving into the neighborhood.  “It’s a miracle,” I thought.  “The mountain is coming to Mohammad.”

 

That was J.  He was nice.  We interacted.  But he was no mountain. 

 

A few more months passed by.  J told me about another nice, single man of marriageable age who was moving into the neighborhood.  My ears perked up ala Mrs. Bennet style.

 

That was B.  He was closer to being a mountain.  There might have been a time that I really wanted him to be a mountain.  In the end, he was just a foothill.

 

And that was that for quite a while.  B and J would occasionally hang out.  Not because we had anything in common, but because we were the only three single Mormon folk here at the-edge-of-nowhere and there are rules about things like that—thou shalt not shun another like you when you are the minorest of minorities.  

 

It was the following spring and summer when B’s inner yenta came out.  One’s mind often turns to love in the spring.  And even if you can’t find love for yourself, you try to find love for other people.  “There is this great guy in our ward,” he would say, “I think you two would really get a long.  We play tennis with him a lot.”  This conversation repeated itself often.  Sometimes, more information would leak out. 

 

“His name is [Mr. F.]"

“He was recently divorced, but he is completely normal.”

“He is tall and has blondish brown hair.”

 

You get the picture.  And every single time I heard the phrase, “I think you two would really get along.”  He said he was not trying to set us up, but I think the Jewish yenta blood ran too deep in his veins to ignore.

 

So, when that fateful Sunday came when I met Mr. F. for the first time, I knew exactly who he was.  (And he knew who I was since B did a very thorough job at being yenta.)

 

And B was right; Mr. F. and I really did get along.

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