Friday, February 27, 2009

On thin ice

I told jockitch we couldn't date. "Fine," he said. "Wanna hang out?"

I said, "Sure." That might have been a mistake. Because I'm afraid it's going to kill me, how much he likes and respects me, how much I enjoy being with him, how well we get along, and how incredibly incompatible we are in a select few yet crucial ways.

Kashrut, for example. He told me he got very frustrated during our little Dunkin' Donuts odyssey. "The West Side is known for good food. We kept passing all these great restaurants, but we couldn't go in," he said. His lackadaisical approach to Jewish observance was a pretty big factor in his divorce. I'd have to be even more of an idiot than I usually am to think he'd accede to my desire to keep kosher and Shabbat if he wouldn't do that for the mother of his children.

Also, he's pretty much my toxic type: blondish, big-headed, and too recently divorced. He doesn't know what he wants out of a relationship or out of life -- among other issues, which I won't go into -- so he can't know if he wants me. No point in getting attached to him -- it's a recipe for heartbreak. I might as well go skydiving without a parachute.

Trouble is, no other men are paying me near this close attention or appreciation, saying things like, "I just don't understand how you're still single -- you're so cool, pretty, smart, amazing, etc."

I've long believed that my sole purpose in life is to prove that Gd has a ferocious sense of irony. Sadly, jockitch is probably Exhibit M or N.
Copyright (c) "Ayelet Survivor"

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