“All these married people think you’re hilarious,” my sister tells me.
It seems she keeps running into married friends who had read my columns about my search for love. Columns where I not only chronicle my exhausting and futile search for a husband in Israel, but where I lambast my married friends for making it all worse by consistently giving me bad advice.
“First of all, why do they all think you’re so funny? Don’t they realize how hostile you are towards them?” sayeth my sister.
“And more than that, don’t they see how sad it is? I mean, it just makes me so sad to see you putting yourself out there, again and again, only to be disappointed. I’m glad they think it’s so hilarious. The fact that you’re 38 and want to have a baby and get married and keep meeting guys who hurt you. That’s really funny, ha-ha.”
She just wants me to find my partner already so that I can write about other things, like all of those whack-jobs in Israel.
In other words, my family is ready for me to retire. Enough with publically humiliating myself. Why can’t I write about other, more scholarly, topics?
And after I hang up the phone, I felt pretty darn lousy. I felt like the wah-wah baby of the dating world. Poor me! I’ve gone out with every Jewish guy in Chicago and now Jerusalem and still no dice? And if you ask my sister, I’m like the court jester, slipping on the banana peel to make the king laugh.
This is when my firm friend, also single, steps in.
“You give voice to what [singles] think, which is why I love your writing so much. Thank you for putting a little bit of yourself out there all the time so the rest of us can hide behind it and say how great you are!”
The question is: How much more of this can I take?
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