I still don't know how the painful ritual of dating has survived the ice age, stone age and Uggs, but even a self-respected non-conformist, such as myself, has grudgingly partaken in the excruciating process of weeding out the Joes from the "shmoes". Like listening to Ahmajinedad rant at the UN, reading Page Six of the NewYork Post or dieting, it is a compulsive trip that seems destined to cause rubbernecking and whiplash to all those involved. In my case, an all-out collision and 50 car pile-up. My dating career makes the US economy seem stable and euphoric. If courtship was a movie, mine would be "A Nightmare on Austin Street".
Being a semi-attractive woman of a certain demographic, I have been matched with a motley crew of men of all ages, professions, socio-economic statuses and physical attributes. The only common denominator is that they all have noses, some levels of testosterone and pee standing up (so I was told). As I have aged, I am more flexible in my fixedness ( yes, a total contradiction) in selecting a courting candidate. This "essay" is a warning to be afraid of this flexibility. Be Very afraid. The following is a cautionary tale meant to save others. The names have NOT been changed. Ok, maybe altered slightly!
It was a scorching and sultry day in South Florida. My well-intentioned, loving sister and main pimp, Raizy, excitedly exited the elevator of her exclusive Miami Beach condo with breaking news. (For the record she drives a Range Rover and NOT the stereotypical cadillac) She had a handsome, self-made billionaire for me to "go out" with. Charles, a 30 year old perpetual playboy swinging from the chandelier on the 12th floor was the matchmaker. The contender was the father of a girl he had dated a few years before. According to this thoughtful fun-lover, who minored in the porn industry and women's studies, the guy was stable, sexy, sweet and had a "Trumpesque " resume. Charles requested a pic and a brief bio he would use to introduce and "market" me via e-mail and follow-up phone call. By the close of the conversation, we were designing the wedding dress and had Vera Wang on speed dial.
After approximately seven months, HE called. "Adi" was a swiss Real estate mogul and world traveller. I had been told he was tall, dark, in his mid-forties and very handsome. An orthodox jewish George Clooney with the Shrewdness and street smarts of Mort Zuckerman coupled with the wisdom of the Dalai Lama. A triple threat indeed. When he spoke with the accent of Hitler and Henry Kissinger, I decided that my residual familial Holocaust trauma would not interfere in the way of true love. I offered to pick him up from his hotel in the ultra-orthodox enclave of Boro Park, Brooklyn, since I always like to put my best "Choo" forward. I put on my drag queen outfit, replete with professional make-up application and headed out to pick up the Prince in my Toyota Camry. As I left my apartment, in a serendipitous moment, the janitor of my building informed me that he had recently received new dental implants and proceeded to ask me out on a date. Though his smile WAS captivating, I declined and off I went to meet my glamorous destiny. Though Adi was an orthodox Jew, he was not chasidic, but preferred to spend time amongst the people of his ancestors and "slum" it. I was to pick him up outside of an ultra-hasidic synagogue in lieu of the hotel after a brief phone call in transit to finally meet him. Though I was slightly uncomfortable pulling up in front of the shul, I agreed. After all, compromise is imperative in all situations.
I arrived at the designated meeting point fifteen minutes early, during the evening prayer services. As I nervously waited in the car, while providing a running commentary to my pimp/sister over the despicable Sprint network, I observed the sea of black bursting through the doors of the "munkatch shteibl". I was searching for the one thing that was "not like the others". Note, if you are a pretty woman sitting in a car staring at a bunch of guys coming out of a building, you can feel like ice-cream under the gaze of Chris Christie. Nevertheless, I calmly spotted the beige amongst the black and I wanted to at least maim, if not kill the guy who set me up, literally. The only description that fit my suitor was "tall". I couldn't tell if he was "dark" since he didn't have any hair on his corpulent head which was not a day younger than sixty. He WAS Henry Kissinger, but without the hair or the charisma. I resisted every urge to press my stiletto to the metal and disappear, but my inner core chastised me for being so superficial. I leaned over through the open window, called his name and let him into the front seat. As soon as he sat next to me, he was screaming into his phone. We were off to a great start.
"I just came back from Cuba", he exclaimed loudly. He pronounced Cuba like K-OO-Ba. I didn't know if he was speaking to me or into the phone. When he segued into Swiss Deutsche, I realized he wasn't addressing me. I silently added "rude" to the list of adjectives to describe him. At least I would have a great tale to tell. As he continued his conversation with the third party on the date with us, I interrupted him to ask him where he wanted to go. I prayed it would not be anywhere I would bump into friends or "frenemies". I decided on a very, very, very dark and obscure kosher restaurant and slipped the waiter a ten to seat us in the corner close to the kitchen. A recess most jews avoid. I realized my error when my date assumed I wanted romantic privacy. I wanted a mask, but I settled on a glass of wine. To my dismay and horror, my date demanded "room temperature" water from the perplexed waiter who couldn't determine if I was his "girlfriend" or his daughter.
"What's the magic word?" I lectured. This cosmopolitan businessman looked baffled. "PLEASE". The word is "PLEASE". I was officially losing it. "My 5 year old nieces have better manners than you"! He grinned with pleasure at my irritation and anger. The guy was actually enjoying this. I took a deep breath and thought of Jerusalem, blue skies and its spirituality and calmed down. To his credit, he did tell me I was beautiful and couldn't understand why I wasn't "grabbed" up yet. After two torturous hours of feeling as if I was speaking to my "Yiddishe"-heavy accented, tough grandmother, he paid the check and I ran out to the car. All that was missing was the stabbing rhythm music that was played during the shower scene in "Psycho".
I dropped off the Swiss Mister at his hotel, where he proceeded to ask me out on a second date. I was so shocked that I was at a loss of words, which if you know me is as rare as an honest politician. I agreed to speak with him again and we actually went on to become "acquaintances". As I drove home, I felt my blood pressure subside. Later I found out that "Adi" was short for "Adolph". A fulfilling prophecy indeed.
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