the matchup: Love Set

by Abigail Pickus
Special To The Jewish Week

When I whispered to the heavenly spheres that all I want for Chanukah is a boyfriend, I didn’t mean that I wanted the three elderly gentlemen seated next to me at Aroma café in the German Colony.

And by “three elderly gentlemen” I mean the three chain-smoking, aging Lotharios with the proudly displayed chest hair, chattering in Hebrew (except for the distinct utterance of the word “JDate”) who are sitting so close they’re practically on my lap, ogling me and every female in view.

And isn’t it always the way, but at the same time that I am using every ounce of strength to avoid these gents, I am working overtime to catch the eye of the small, dark-haired cutie decked out in tennis whites seated just inches from my face at an outside table on the other side of the glass.

“Methinks I’m destined to marry a tennis pro,” I tell my friend, who stops by the café to say hello. “A very small, very cute, most likely very young tennis pro,” I add, gesturing towards my Romeo of the moment.
“Cute!” says my friend, making the mistake of looking at the hunters and gatherers on top of us.
“I’m warning you,” I whisper. “Do not, I repeat not, make eye contact.”

And then we try desperately to get the tennis pro’s attention. My friend waves her arms in the air. I turn beguilingly toward the window, ready to flash a coy smile. I even put on a little lipstick.
Nothing.

“Gay,” says my friend. “Either that or he’s engaged.”

“Or,” I add, “the dude’s just not that into me.”

I hate that book. It’s ruined my life because now I’m acutely aware of all the men who are immune to my charms and all the ways in which they can actively and passively avoid me. This often happens after we’ve gone out on a few intense dates and I think we’re about embark on something beautiful, when it seems they only want to tell me how much they like me, kiss me in the dark of night on Rehov Harakevet with an intensity so fierce it almost scares me, and then avoid me like the plague.

Because what I’ve been saying here in a deeply hidden and kabbalistic way is that there is a certain son of Israel who for whatever reason has hardened his heart against me. “Don’t let me get in the way of your fun,” is what he says when I mention that my calendar is filling up and try to pin him down for plans. And when I respond that it’s not a matter of him getting in the way of my fun, that I like him and want to see him (have I no self-respect?) his only response is, “Thank you,” and then a hasty goodbye.

And because I’ve never met a dating dilemma that cannot be shaken, stirred and dissected, I take his disinterest as grounds for much psychological and biblical analysis, which is hard to do when I’ve only known the guy a couple of weeks and have no way of piercing the inner workings of his psyche.

Of course, this doesn’t stop me from issuing a 500-page responsa, fortunately (for me and for everyone involved) printed in invisible ink in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind. Let’s just say the gist of my findings are that either I scared him off or he was just never looking to get involved in anything serious in the first place. I also come to the conclusion that as much as I think I take up 100 percent of his brain space, the reality is probably the opposite: Whatever else is going on in his life is taking precedence over me.

“Don’t worry,” I lie to myself. “There are other dark-skinned, big-nosed, deep-thinking, spiritual men out there and one of them is going to be beguiled by you!”

And in the meantime, I argue, why not consider a retiree? I know a few hanging out right now at Aroma who have all the time in the world to spend with you the likes of little old you. The only catch is they come as a unit. And you might need to learn how to work the defibrillator.

Abigail Pickus is a writer living in Israel.

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