A few years ago, while visiting Tzfat in the north of Israel, my sister insisted that I visit a specific holy area she'd heard a lot about. This site, by the name of Amuka, is the burial ground of a great rabbi who was known to have special powers. In particular, hundreds of people go in droves to his grave each week to pray for health, fertility or marriage. It was recommended I go for the latter.
The experience of visiting the grave in Amuka was nothing less than surreal. I was told to buy candles at the entrance and then was instructed to pray at the grave, light the candle outside while saying my prayer to meet my life partner, and then circle the dome that sits on the roof of the grave 7 times. This resembles the Jewish tradition of circling one's groom during the wedding ceremony, and I took the entire process very seriously. My good friend, who came with me for the journey but was not prepared to partake in any of the humiliating rituals, simply stood at the side and laughed. All she could think of was how she would describe my antics afterwards to our friends at home.
Imagine both of our surprise, then, when I got a phone call as we got back into the car, from someone who wanted to fix me up. We both went a little pale. Could this be it? Could it be that just one visit to a grave in Tzfat was all it would take to get me together with fate's intended partner?
The call was from a cousin, who had given my number to a friend, who was going to give it to her brother. The down side of this was that my cousin had never met the guy. In fact, all she knew about him was that he was apparently a great guy. The up side? I was in one of the most beautiful places in the world, I had just made a special prayer for a partner, and the timing couldn't be better. I was convinced that this was a date with destiny.
All my cousin could tell me was the potential date's name. However, with the advent of the Internet, that was more than enough to go on to find some of the all-too-important info I sought before going out with someone. I googled him, and was a little intimidated to find hundreds of search results come up. It seemed my potential date was a very well-known Israel journalist who specialized in political commentary. This did not bode well for me. With a pre-disposition to nightmares and an idyllic approach to existence, I take a clear ostrich (head-in-the-sand) approach to life. The daily news is not something that appears on my list of priorities for any given day.
So I spent the next week reading up on actuality, with a strong desire to hold my own in a conversation with someone who was a clear intellectual. Yet when he eventually called, he sounded shy and quite introverted. Making conversation was not easy, and it made me wonder how he could be such a successful journalist when he could barely string a minute of small talk together. Soon after the call began, it ended, with us agreeing to meet the following night in a central location.
The date took place on what was possibly the hottest night in the history of the state of Israel. It was so hot that getting dressed was a chore, and I regretted agreeing to meet this virtual stranger at all. I use the term 'getting dressed' loosely – it was too hot for real clothing, so I elected to wear a t(iny)-shirt with spaghetti-thin straps and some loose cotton pants with sandals. Imagine my shock when my date got out his car wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and black jacket. Did he have poor circulation? Bad skin? Was he albino? As these questions raced through my mind, he turned his back to lock the door, and I spotted what might as well have been a luminous yarmulke clipped to his head. Could it be? Could my cousin have been so desperate for me to meet someone that she forgot I was secular? When she told me his name, did she forget to mention the 'rabbi' first?
He hid what could only have been horror like a true gentleman. I doubt he'd ever seen a woman as naked as I was on that steaming night, and it took every ounce of good manners for me not to get back in my car and bolt it out of there. I'm sure the feeling was mutual.
We went to a nice kosher restaurant, which I found kind of ironic considering that I was clearly not dressed for anything kosher at all. I was impressed that he was not too embarrassed to be seen with me in public, but then again, he probably didn't know of any non-kosher establishments in the area. The date lasted as long as it takes to drink a glass of coke. He was in a rush to get to a lesson at his seminary. I was in a rush to get anywhere else.
And the studying I'd done to ensure I could hold my own in a conversation on current affairs turned out to be unnecessary. Other than a coincidental common name, my date and the famous journalist had nothing in common. It seems Google doesn't yet cover the local yeshiva celebrities.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Thanks for the feedback
The first series of Big Brother started in Israel a few weeks ago. For those who pretend not to know what this ultimate in reality viewing is, the show focuses on about 16 people who move into a house together for 100 days and forego all rights to any privacy whatsoever. There are cameras in every part of the house other than the toilet, and participants are mandated to wear microphones at all times. Viewers can watch what's happening in the house 24 hours a day on TV, or even better via the Internet, where one can choose which camera (and hence, which participants) to focus on.
The show feeds the voyeur in each and every one of us. While I generally deny that I watch it to anyone who asks directly, I am convinced that most people check it out - even occasionally - just to see 'what's happening' in the house. I am fascinated by the psychology of the experience – who would WANT the whole country to see their every move and hear all their conversations? Why would someone volunteer to be jailed and monitored for three months of their lives? And, most importantly, will anything ever actually happen or will they just continue to sit around the pool, talking nonsense for the next 6 weeks?
What frustrates me the most with the show is the lack of interaction with the outside world, or rather, OUR lack of interaction with THEM. I think it would become a lot more interesting if viewers had the ability to communicate with the participants – ask questions, make suggestions, tell them what other participants are saying about them, or simply 'chat' with the people that have been so closely monitored for weeks on end.
Cyber-dating bears some resemblance to Big Brother. By putting oneself on the Internet, one becomes exposed to all sorts of strangers, but also to friends and colleagues. When I was dating via Internet sites, I often came across profiles with pictures of friends, acquaintances and colleagues. But more than that, when I went out in the city, the experience always came with a strong sense of déjà vu, where the people in my surroundings all looked familiar (mostly because I'd browsed their profiles in cyberspace).
In my dating heyday, I often thought about the issue of feedback. I even considered having friends sit at a table next to me when I went on a first date just to let me know what I did right and what I did wrong. That is, until I mentioned this to one of my blind dates and he took the opportunity to give me open, honest feedback. He was a friend of a friend, was visiting Israel for a week and was in the process of deciding whether to move to Israel or stay in South Africa. He called me at work one day and asked if I could meet for lunch, as his schedule was very full but he'd been told it would be a good idea to meet me. I agreed, even though I was not really dressed for a date and was under pressure at the office.
The actual date was painless. He spent most of it talking about his ex-girlfriend (a common experience for me, I'm afraid). I don't think he asked me anything about myself at all, meaning I had to make no effort to communicate with him, other than nodding my head on occasion and pretending to be interested in why he no longer wanted to date the girl he so obviously still wanted to date. At some point, he started talking about the experience of dating, and I mentioned that I'd often thought it would be a good idea to film the first date in order to analyze it afterwards. He took that as a cue to provide feedback, and told me he'd be happy to let me know exactly what he thought of our date, just like a friend would have done if they'd been silently observing from the side.
At the time, I was in a process of working on myself. I was working out regularly, had lost a significant amount of weight, was feeling good and felt like I radiated that. So I felt quite comfortable inviting his honest feedback. Until he started delivering it. To start with, he said I got 10 out of 10 for personality, nothing he could find fault with there. And then he went on to dissect my physical features like I was a cadaver on a slab. Apparently, I needed to lose some weight, tone up, grow my hair longer, wear more makeup, since I am short I should buy some high heels, and perhaps a personal designer could help me learn to dress better for my body.
As he shared his honest feedback with me, I felt my personal temperature gauge rise from within, and when the heat arrived in my eyes he started to back off and simmer down. His last sentence in the 'what's wrong with me' diatribe literally trailed off into silence, as he realized that he may have gone too far when he suggested I whiten my teeth. The bottom line - If I could just work a little harder on my physical appearance, he'd probably be willing to take me out again.
I thanked him for the feedback.
And I explained in a controlled, soft, probably menacing voice, that he may want to learn to appreciate people not as 'snapshots' but rather as 'movie footage', not as an object in a single point in time but as one point in a series of events. The way any given person looks, at any given time, is a factor of so many things that one look simply cannot be enough to make a judgment call. But that said, I told him I was grateful he'd shared his opinion. And I followed on to tell him that I, too, had feedback.
I told him he looked fine. His weight was not a problem, he was firm enough, his hair was the right length, his teeth where white and he was just the right height. Physically close to perfect. If he could have just done something about his rotten personality, I probably would have been willing to let him take me out again.
I never heard from him again.
The show feeds the voyeur in each and every one of us. While I generally deny that I watch it to anyone who asks directly, I am convinced that most people check it out - even occasionally - just to see 'what's happening' in the house. I am fascinated by the psychology of the experience – who would WANT the whole country to see their every move and hear all their conversations? Why would someone volunteer to be jailed and monitored for three months of their lives? And, most importantly, will anything ever actually happen or will they just continue to sit around the pool, talking nonsense for the next 6 weeks?
What frustrates me the most with the show is the lack of interaction with the outside world, or rather, OUR lack of interaction with THEM. I think it would become a lot more interesting if viewers had the ability to communicate with the participants – ask questions, make suggestions, tell them what other participants are saying about them, or simply 'chat' with the people that have been so closely monitored for weeks on end.
Cyber-dating bears some resemblance to Big Brother. By putting oneself on the Internet, one becomes exposed to all sorts of strangers, but also to friends and colleagues. When I was dating via Internet sites, I often came across profiles with pictures of friends, acquaintances and colleagues. But more than that, when I went out in the city, the experience always came with a strong sense of déjà vu, where the people in my surroundings all looked familiar (mostly because I'd browsed their profiles in cyberspace).
In my dating heyday, I often thought about the issue of feedback. I even considered having friends sit at a table next to me when I went on a first date just to let me know what I did right and what I did wrong. That is, until I mentioned this to one of my blind dates and he took the opportunity to give me open, honest feedback. He was a friend of a friend, was visiting Israel for a week and was in the process of deciding whether to move to Israel or stay in South Africa. He called me at work one day and asked if I could meet for lunch, as his schedule was very full but he'd been told it would be a good idea to meet me. I agreed, even though I was not really dressed for a date and was under pressure at the office.
The actual date was painless. He spent most of it talking about his ex-girlfriend (a common experience for me, I'm afraid). I don't think he asked me anything about myself at all, meaning I had to make no effort to communicate with him, other than nodding my head on occasion and pretending to be interested in why he no longer wanted to date the girl he so obviously still wanted to date. At some point, he started talking about the experience of dating, and I mentioned that I'd often thought it would be a good idea to film the first date in order to analyze it afterwards. He took that as a cue to provide feedback, and told me he'd be happy to let me know exactly what he thought of our date, just like a friend would have done if they'd been silently observing from the side.
At the time, I was in a process of working on myself. I was working out regularly, had lost a significant amount of weight, was feeling good and felt like I radiated that. So I felt quite comfortable inviting his honest feedback. Until he started delivering it. To start with, he said I got 10 out of 10 for personality, nothing he could find fault with there. And then he went on to dissect my physical features like I was a cadaver on a slab. Apparently, I needed to lose some weight, tone up, grow my hair longer, wear more makeup, since I am short I should buy some high heels, and perhaps a personal designer could help me learn to dress better for my body.
As he shared his honest feedback with me, I felt my personal temperature gauge rise from within, and when the heat arrived in my eyes he started to back off and simmer down. His last sentence in the 'what's wrong with me' diatribe literally trailed off into silence, as he realized that he may have gone too far when he suggested I whiten my teeth. The bottom line - If I could just work a little harder on my physical appearance, he'd probably be willing to take me out again.
I thanked him for the feedback.
And I explained in a controlled, soft, probably menacing voice, that he may want to learn to appreciate people not as 'snapshots' but rather as 'movie footage', not as an object in a single point in time but as one point in a series of events. The way any given person looks, at any given time, is a factor of so many things that one look simply cannot be enough to make a judgment call. But that said, I told him I was grateful he'd shared his opinion. And I followed on to tell him that I, too, had feedback.
I told him he looked fine. His weight was not a problem, he was firm enough, his hair was the right length, his teeth where white and he was just the right height. Physically close to perfect. If he could have just done something about his rotten personality, I probably would have been willing to let him take me out again.
I never heard from him again.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Competing to be picked up
Quite a few people I know met partners in 'pick-up' situations – bars; restaurants; one couple I'm friendly with even met on a bus. I don't recall ever really having been 'picked up' – the closest I came to it was someone noticing me at a football match and calling me up later. That didn't end very well, though; I vaguely recall him taking me to an animated movie for our first date, where he softly crooned ALL the songs in my ear throughout the movie, much to my irritation and that of the other movie-goers.
There was one incident that may well have turned into a pick-up if I hadn't nipped it in the bud. It happened at the tail end of the longest cross-Atlantic flight in the world. I was returning from San Diego at the end of a summer vacation, and stopped off in London before going home. I had taken an afternoon flight from San Diego to Los Angeles and the red-eye to New York. Then, after a four-hour wait in New York - spent nodding off on the floor of the airport since all the seats were taken - I spent another six hours on the flight to London. Needless to say, by the time I arrived at Heathrow I felt like death warmed up, and wore a look to match. The next part of my journey consisted of an hour-long train ride to East Finchley, so I dragged my two suitcases and hand luggage onto an empty compartment in the train, then proceeded to undress to the absolute lower limit of public decency, as it was steaming hot and the ventilation was less than ideal.
Within five minutes of embarking, a pretty English girl and two European-looking guys in their early twenties joined me. She sat next to me and they sat across from the two of us. They were talking in a foreign language, and it took a few minutes for me to come out of my jet-lagged funk to realize that they were talking Hebrew and I could actually understand what they had to say. I was not in the mood to chat and certainly didn't let on that I understood them. Not that what they were talking about was particularly interesting anyway – discussion mostly focused on the 'action' they were planning on getting that night, where they were going to find women and how lucky they assumed they'd be. The English rose to my right kept quiet, and I concentrated on not falling asleep, out of terror that I'd miss my stop and drag this night out a minute longer than it absolutely had to be.
A few minutes into the ride, it became apparent to me that the conversation across the aisle had moved from the 'generic' to the 'localized', and the guys were making a blatant comparison between the beauty to my right, and me. The odds were against me – I hadn't showered for 30 hours, I was rubber-necking (the movement that takes place when you fight sleep and your head keeps dropping onto your chest, only to be ripped up in sudden jerking movements when you realize you nodded off…). She was lovely – milky skin, freckles, slightly ginger hair (instant aphrodisiac for Israeli men), and she was clean and made up, ready for a night on the town. When she realized she might be the topic of conversation across the way, she gave the guys a shy glance through her long, mascara'd eyelashes, and I didn't stand a chance.
Under the assumption that they were speaking a language neither of us girls understood, the guys were fairly brutal. To start with, they went into a scathing analysis of how I looked like I hadn't slept for a week, and started taking bets on how long it would be before I fell asleep completely. They also joked about a few of the 'favors' they'd be 'willing to perform' for my seat-mate, and just when I thought they would not find a single redeeming feature in yours truly, their eyes moved past our faces to our upper torsos. Time for me to make a comeback. The girl next to me had not been blessed with any breasts to write of – in fact, I think G-d gave her a lovely face in the hope that it would stop men from looking any further. The boys across the way picked up on this, joking about her 'flapjacks' as opposed to my 'round buns'; how she had nothing to grab whereas I could give each of them a breast and there would still be 'leftovers'…It was when they started discussing specific acts they'd like to perform with my bosom that I decided it was time to let them know that I did, in fact, understand what they had to say.
So following on their comparison ("girl on right, pretty; girl on left, has had better days"; "girl on right flat as a pancake, girl on right perfectly endowed"), I retorted, in accented – but perfect – Hebrew. All I did was add another feature to their comparative statement, informing them in Hebrew that in addition to the obvious difference between our faces and our breasts, there was also the fact that her Hebrew was non-existent, and mine was perfect.
They hot-footed it out of the carriage and the rest of the trip was spent in silence.
There was one incident that may well have turned into a pick-up if I hadn't nipped it in the bud. It happened at the tail end of the longest cross-Atlantic flight in the world. I was returning from San Diego at the end of a summer vacation, and stopped off in London before going home. I had taken an afternoon flight from San Diego to Los Angeles and the red-eye to New York. Then, after a four-hour wait in New York - spent nodding off on the floor of the airport since all the seats were taken - I spent another six hours on the flight to London. Needless to say, by the time I arrived at Heathrow I felt like death warmed up, and wore a look to match. The next part of my journey consisted of an hour-long train ride to East Finchley, so I dragged my two suitcases and hand luggage onto an empty compartment in the train, then proceeded to undress to the absolute lower limit of public decency, as it was steaming hot and the ventilation was less than ideal.
Within five minutes of embarking, a pretty English girl and two European-looking guys in their early twenties joined me. She sat next to me and they sat across from the two of us. They were talking in a foreign language, and it took a few minutes for me to come out of my jet-lagged funk to realize that they were talking Hebrew and I could actually understand what they had to say. I was not in the mood to chat and certainly didn't let on that I understood them. Not that what they were talking about was particularly interesting anyway – discussion mostly focused on the 'action' they were planning on getting that night, where they were going to find women and how lucky they assumed they'd be. The English rose to my right kept quiet, and I concentrated on not falling asleep, out of terror that I'd miss my stop and drag this night out a minute longer than it absolutely had to be.
A few minutes into the ride, it became apparent to me that the conversation across the aisle had moved from the 'generic' to the 'localized', and the guys were making a blatant comparison between the beauty to my right, and me. The odds were against me – I hadn't showered for 30 hours, I was rubber-necking (the movement that takes place when you fight sleep and your head keeps dropping onto your chest, only to be ripped up in sudden jerking movements when you realize you nodded off…). She was lovely – milky skin, freckles, slightly ginger hair (instant aphrodisiac for Israeli men), and she was clean and made up, ready for a night on the town. When she realized she might be the topic of conversation across the way, she gave the guys a shy glance through her long, mascara'd eyelashes, and I didn't stand a chance.
Under the assumption that they were speaking a language neither of us girls understood, the guys were fairly brutal. To start with, they went into a scathing analysis of how I looked like I hadn't slept for a week, and started taking bets on how long it would be before I fell asleep completely. They also joked about a few of the 'favors' they'd be 'willing to perform' for my seat-mate, and just when I thought they would not find a single redeeming feature in yours truly, their eyes moved past our faces to our upper torsos. Time for me to make a comeback. The girl next to me had not been blessed with any breasts to write of – in fact, I think G-d gave her a lovely face in the hope that it would stop men from looking any further. The boys across the way picked up on this, joking about her 'flapjacks' as opposed to my 'round buns'; how she had nothing to grab whereas I could give each of them a breast and there would still be 'leftovers'…It was when they started discussing specific acts they'd like to perform with my bosom that I decided it was time to let them know that I did, in fact, understand what they had to say.
So following on their comparison ("girl on right, pretty; girl on left, has had better days"; "girl on right flat as a pancake, girl on right perfectly endowed"), I retorted, in accented – but perfect – Hebrew. All I did was add another feature to their comparative statement, informing them in Hebrew that in addition to the obvious difference between our faces and our breasts, there was also the fact that her Hebrew was non-existent, and mine was perfect.
They hot-footed it out of the carriage and the rest of the trip was spent in silence.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Beware of Matchmaking Mothers
I've yet to meet a mother who didn't want me for her son. Regardless of whether the latter is married or single, young or old, interested or not, their mothers tend to fall in love with me at first sight. I once had a mother ask me to wait for her unborn child to be conceived, born and raised, just so she could claim me as her daughter-in-law. I suggested she adopt an adult for me or introduce me to her brother instead.
The sons, on the other hand, tend to be less eager. In fact, parental adoration often causes a directly-opposite reaction in the offspring. I have found that while boyfriends are delighted when their mothers like me, potential boyfriends find the thought of their mother even knowing I exist (let alone having met me) fairly intimidating. For those who are commitment-phobic, there's the issue of how they could date someone who had already met their mother; and for those with deeply-embedded psychological issues, there is the inevitable angst associated with the fact that their mother could be interpreted as playing a role in their dating lives. And to be honest, without too badly maligning most men I've had the pleasure or displeasure of going on first dates with, I have definitely run the full gamut of commitment-phobic, psychologically-issued men (with or without wonderful moms).
As such, as a matter of rule I try to avoid the parental fix up. Not only have I always firmly resisted attempts on the part of my own parents to introduce me to potential partners, but I only actually fell into the trap of allowing a mother to introduce me to her son once. Once was enough.
One of the reasons I even allowed the fix-up to take place at all was that the potential date's mother is one of the finest women I know. We had an instantaneous click when we met at mutual friends one weekend. In fact, we had more in common than I have with most of my friends – we like the same books, similar music, both love to travel – and I figured the apple probably doesn't fall far from the tree. And to my credit, she never actually told me she'd be fixing me up with her son – she simply gave him my number, and a week after I met his mother, Noam called, introduced himself, and asked if I'd like to meet for a cup of coffee.
My biggest concern with meeting Noam was that his mother is religious and I am far from. I was concerned that I'd meet up with a yarmulke-toting G-d-fearing kosher guy, but I decided to bite the bullet and give it a try anyway. When he arrived to pick me up I was pleasantly surprised. Not only is he secular, but Noam is good-looking, rugged, confident, funny and very smart. I was to learn afterwards that he's also a great cook and a deep thinker who loves animals, is great with children and is comfortable in just about any type of social situation. Our first date lasted a couple of hours, and the conversation ran the full gamut of topics, which we sashayed between with the ease of professional ballroom dance partners.
When Noam invited me to go with him to Jerusalem for our second date, I was delighted. He said that he and his roommate were going to a poetry reading at the Sultan's pool in Jerusalem, and I was excited that after only one date he was already happy to introduce me to his friends. Perhaps for once I'd had the good fortune to meet someone without commitment issues? Or even better, without ANY deep-seated issues at all?
I must admit I raised an eyebrow slightly when I was given the back seat of the car on our way to Jerusalem. But since Noam and his friend had arrived together to fetch me, I realized it was probably not comfortable for him to ask his friend to move to the back of the car. Nevertheless, I also felt it was a little impolite to put your date in the back and your friend in the front. And as the evening progressed, I realized that Noam, in fact, agreed with this.
At the restaurant before the poetry reading, we agreed to split the bill. The second eyebrow joined the first in its raised position when my date paid for himself and his friend, and I paid my own share. But the penny only really dropped when we got to the poetry reading and Noam's 'friend' asked whether I would swap places with Noam, so that he, too, could sit at Noam's side (he was kind enough to allow me to be on the other side).
So on the way back from Jerusalem, from my now-regular back-seat position, I was not really surprised when I saw the roommate's left hand slide across the seats and rest gently on Noam's upper thigh. I also realized that Noam was not as impolite as I'd suspected. In fact, he had placed his date in the front seat, and his friend in the back. He had simply failed to mention to me that I was NOT his date, and that rather than this being an episode of J-Date, I was an extra in a feature edition of 'Gay Date'.
The good news? This story ends happily – Noam's mom has been enlightened as to why she should stop fixing him up, and I got myself a great male friend with impeccable taste who gives me first-rate dating advice. Could a girl ask for more?
The sons, on the other hand, tend to be less eager. In fact, parental adoration often causes a directly-opposite reaction in the offspring. I have found that while boyfriends are delighted when their mothers like me, potential boyfriends find the thought of their mother even knowing I exist (let alone having met me) fairly intimidating. For those who are commitment-phobic, there's the issue of how they could date someone who had already met their mother; and for those with deeply-embedded psychological issues, there is the inevitable angst associated with the fact that their mother could be interpreted as playing a role in their dating lives. And to be honest, without too badly maligning most men I've had the pleasure or displeasure of going on first dates with, I have definitely run the full gamut of commitment-phobic, psychologically-issued men (with or without wonderful moms).
As such, as a matter of rule I try to avoid the parental fix up. Not only have I always firmly resisted attempts on the part of my own parents to introduce me to potential partners, but I only actually fell into the trap of allowing a mother to introduce me to her son once. Once was enough.
One of the reasons I even allowed the fix-up to take place at all was that the potential date's mother is one of the finest women I know. We had an instantaneous click when we met at mutual friends one weekend. In fact, we had more in common than I have with most of my friends – we like the same books, similar music, both love to travel – and I figured the apple probably doesn't fall far from the tree. And to my credit, she never actually told me she'd be fixing me up with her son – she simply gave him my number, and a week after I met his mother, Noam called, introduced himself, and asked if I'd like to meet for a cup of coffee.
My biggest concern with meeting Noam was that his mother is religious and I am far from. I was concerned that I'd meet up with a yarmulke-toting G-d-fearing kosher guy, but I decided to bite the bullet and give it a try anyway. When he arrived to pick me up I was pleasantly surprised. Not only is he secular, but Noam is good-looking, rugged, confident, funny and very smart. I was to learn afterwards that he's also a great cook and a deep thinker who loves animals, is great with children and is comfortable in just about any type of social situation. Our first date lasted a couple of hours, and the conversation ran the full gamut of topics, which we sashayed between with the ease of professional ballroom dance partners.
When Noam invited me to go with him to Jerusalem for our second date, I was delighted. He said that he and his roommate were going to a poetry reading at the Sultan's pool in Jerusalem, and I was excited that after only one date he was already happy to introduce me to his friends. Perhaps for once I'd had the good fortune to meet someone without commitment issues? Or even better, without ANY deep-seated issues at all?
I must admit I raised an eyebrow slightly when I was given the back seat of the car on our way to Jerusalem. But since Noam and his friend had arrived together to fetch me, I realized it was probably not comfortable for him to ask his friend to move to the back of the car. Nevertheless, I also felt it was a little impolite to put your date in the back and your friend in the front. And as the evening progressed, I realized that Noam, in fact, agreed with this.
At the restaurant before the poetry reading, we agreed to split the bill. The second eyebrow joined the first in its raised position when my date paid for himself and his friend, and I paid my own share. But the penny only really dropped when we got to the poetry reading and Noam's 'friend' asked whether I would swap places with Noam, so that he, too, could sit at Noam's side (he was kind enough to allow me to be on the other side).
So on the way back from Jerusalem, from my now-regular back-seat position, I was not really surprised when I saw the roommate's left hand slide across the seats and rest gently on Noam's upper thigh. I also realized that Noam was not as impolite as I'd suspected. In fact, he had placed his date in the front seat, and his friend in the back. He had simply failed to mention to me that I was NOT his date, and that rather than this being an episode of J-Date, I was an extra in a feature edition of 'Gay Date'.
The good news? This story ends happily – Noam's mom has been enlightened as to why she should stop fixing him up, and I got myself a great male friend with impeccable taste who gives me first-rate dating advice. Could a girl ask for more?
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