Of course he also had his bizzare episodes, like getting very excited from one of my rings and asking me if he can try it on and spending a good amount of time admiring how it suits his little finger there.
There was also this one time that we sat there and sipped our drinks calmly when he suddenly turned to me and announced, completely context-free, that he really loves women. I admit that was weird.

It appears that we have a mutual friend. Well, maybe not as such, a friend of mine knows him, from the PAST. From before he became all holy and pure. I decided to ask this friend of mine about him, and when I did he looked at me secretly and only managed to say that he’s nice. Very nice, even.
Well, very nice is all I need folks.

The next day while I was getting ready to meet with him again, my mobile phone rang and there was my friend again, obligated by his loyalty to me and my healthy steady sanity, calling to say that now that he comes to think of it, he DOES have some info for me, but that I better sit down first. Of course I had to stand. No, no, really, you should sit.
Oh bloody hell, just tell me what it is and get this over with.
Okay, he used to be gay.
I sat down.

Now my bunnies, don’t ask me what does USED TO BE gay mean, as I don’t have the faintest. It’s either you are or you’re not, correcto?
Oh fun.

I made up my mind to confront him that same evening, who knows, maybe it’s an evil rumour, maybe someone hates him to bits and therefore spreads all those vicious tales about him being a cabaret singer, doing the odd bit of moonlighting as a flamenco dancer, the usual stuff we spread around about people who seriously offend us, like overtaking us on the highway, injuring that serious male pride.

Then I thought – well if that’s not the case, well then the reality is that I am dating a homosexual. Tonight, in fact. Now, I have nothing against homosexuals per se, in fact a couple of my good friends from school are a little more open-minded (shall we say), swinging both ways, starting to feel free to leap out of the closet, and I really am okay with the whole thing. In fact, I embrace it. In a very detached, thank-Gd-I-never-have-to-go-near-THAT way.
But I do have a problem with dating a gay guy. Call me old-fashioned if you like, but I do. I have a problem with both of us admiring the waiter. I have a problem with him being overly interested in my lipstick. I have a problem with always wondering if he wishes he was wearing MY clothes. I have problems with all these things. I want to be the GIRL in the relationship, dammit.
So, I thought – I’m doomed to stay single for eternity. More like it.

So we met.
Suddenly everything made sense. The ringy thingy, the Desire For Women Declaration, the niceness, I mean, he UNDERSTOOD me. The millions of little feminine things that used to be sweet and sensitive, and now just SCREAMED out, Hey, look at me, I’m GAY!!

So, on our coffee table were two little candles, how sweet, one was white and was called Lavender, the other one was light purple and was called Violet. I asked the waitress for a light and I lit them both. Quite the right atmosphere, isn’t it. I decided to ask him then; to tell him that I’ve heard that he used to have relationships with men (my other gay friend told me how to define it, said it was very politically correct of me); that I’d like to know if it’s true, basically.

It’s very embarrassing, really. I mean, I don’t even know this guy that well, and now I have to ask him about the most personal intimate things.
It was quiet. I looked at the two little candles and I said to myself, in a very radio-talk-show-broadcaster-kind of tone: Okay, Lavender or Violet, who would you rather be?
“Lavender”, he said immediately.
(Don’t say Lavender, don’t say Lavender, PLEASE don’t say Lavender, it is the GAYEST word ever. The gayest scent ever. A manly guy, even if he WANTED to say Lavender, or even BE Lavender, at this point, would restrain himself.)
“Excuse me?” I said. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Lavender”, he said again, “Of course”.
Why of course. Lavender. Gosh.

At that moment I knew that I’m not up for The Homosexual Confrontation. I ordered me some whisky instead. Ahh, don’t you just adore my coping with life techniques?
Feeling a little fuzzy from the drink and supremely confident in getting myself out of this mess, I asked him if he thinks that we suit each other, at all.
He said that it’s interesting that I bring it up, because he was just thinking the same thing. And immediately added “Though I really love women, you know”.
Oh yes, I know.

We fumbled around a bit, trying to extricate ourselves. I just wanted to get exceptionally drunk and go home. He thought we weren’t so right for each other also, apparently. Thank Gd. None of his reasons had anything to do with MY being gay, so huh. I felt superior, in a small way. Trying to salvage me some dignity. But I guess he could feel superior to me in other ways. I mean, he’s thinner than me.

So we went out again. And again. For 4 whole dates he spoke of nothing but himself. His life, his work, his yeshiva, his blue shirt, his hair, his past, his palm pilot, his website yada yada, truly a remarkable ability to focus of nothing but himself.

So I figured I got the idea of this guy and I’m not going to go out with him again. When he called me after that I told him I think he made his point quite clearly that he has room for no one but himself and that I dont want to go out with him again. Buh bye.
Quite surprisingly, he sounded disappointed. He asked me again, emphasasing his gorgeous foreign accent, promising to behave and to try and be less self-centered.

So I figured why not. Its the accent really.
But I told my flatmates I’m only going out again to make sure I’m doing the right thing by ending it.
What we call To Verify The Killing.

So I met with him again, I came to the date in a combat sort of mood.
He was charming.
I SPOKE, he LISTENED, and even seemed interested, it was all very calm and pleasant. I wasn’t just laughing in the background like before, as if I was a cheerleader in the crowd (GO YOU HUSKIES!!), I was actually a person in that conversation.
I came back to my flat and announced that there has been a change in plan.
I was really beginning to like him.
So we continued going out.

One day we were talking about getting together later that evening. I told him I was PMSing and very moody. It made him doubt the whole evening plans but I insisted. Wont let a minor possibillity of breaking loose and bursting into tears in the middle of the date to get in my way.
So we met. And he brought me three (I repeat, three) packs of chocolates to make it all better.
I think my hormones were shocked. I know my emotions were.

This went on for many, many dates, and by the 10th date knew I was in love. Yes, me, the queen of not feeling anything for anyone, the Master Dumper of unsuspecting yeshiva bocherim, in love. Bizarre indeed.

That he is THE ONE , it seemed shocking but appropriate. He was intimidatingly clever, and amazingly funny. He was sensitive to my emotional needs. He used to say such sweet things to me. Oh Gd, those words. I was someone’s for a while. I was a dear and a daaaaahling and all those wonderful things you can only dream of after being in seminary surrounded by women for so many years. I was his, properly. I was so in love with him, and I was ready to make that final commitment.

Then he disappeared. Vanished, into thin air. One day I was his… his date, his future, the next day, who knows what I was, because he stopped calling. Seeing as how this happened right after I had baked him a birthday cake, I had to wonder if somehow I had accidentally poisoned him.
I phoned him but his flatmate kept saying he wasn’t there. It was the same scenario, over and over.
I kind of got the hint but in my confusion, I didnt believe that this was happening.
I wanted to hear him say it; to tell me it was over so at least I would have some closure, whatever that means.
So I did what any persistent woman would do – I called and called until finally I got him on the phone.
It seems that after three months of dating we find out that he had a problem with commitment. Things that last forever scared him, and he had just then figured out that marriage lasts more than five minutes.

My heart was broken. I cried a lot and painted two of the most miserable paintings ever.
I wouldnt eat, I slept for days and wouldnt talk to my flat mates, and me being quite the very-talkative-never-sleeping type, that’s quite worrying.
The up-side of all of this misery was that I lost weight and looked the best I had in years; the down-side was that I wouldnt leave my flat so no one really saw me.

I tried to force myself to get over him.
I even went shopping. Hell, I said, the great thing about being a woman is that there isn’t a state of depression that a new pair of boots can’t make all better.
And it sort of did feel better for a while.
I seemed to have fooled everyone for a while, even myself.
Then cruel harsh reality set in, for the next two months I thought of nothing but him, I longed for him. People threw out the “time heals” jab; of course that didnt work for me – it was only getting harder to pretend that this relationship didnt affect me. I thought of him constantly. The desire for him grew bigger and bigger till it was too much for me to contain,
Till I couldn’t bear it no more
and I broke
in front of his face actually.
I made no attempts to hide my misery from him.
I know girls are supposed to play the game, be hard to get, be cool and detached, something. I don’t know these games. I wish I did.
I called him, I ICQ’d him, I smashed the fact that I’m broken, and hurt, and still so very much in love, into his face until he must have bled from the impact.
I in hindsight suppose that my actions were incredibly silly. I could have been the legend in his mind, the one he passed up when he should have made the commitment. He would have dated each and every new girl, comparing them to me. Alas, instead he began to think I was unsound.

I have to admit that I even think I became a scary nag monster. I actually ended up calling him up in tears, using the phrase “we need to be together, I’m sorry you cant see it now, but you will, and I’m planning to be around when you finally do”.
I mean how pathetic.
I can see it clearly now, and I have to admit, that as I was spouting all these horribly love-lorn, so-obviously-not-me, things at him, he was being very kind to me. He listened to me, he commiserated, he spoke kind words, he told me that it was just him; there are things that he needs to work through.
I’m sure that you have all heard the same speech before.

I suspect he was just feeling sorry for me, or he was beginning to be so scared of me, he didnt want to get me even more upset. So he saved his final humiliation. I’m not sure he should have, if I had known how he really felt I might have begun to heal a lot faster.
He was just so not definite. And that was the most horrible thing to bear. That maybe there’s still hope. Maybe he can like me again and I’ll feel beautiful and special like I used to when I was with him.

I used to have my own private conversations with him in my head before going to bed, telling him he’s my sweetness, my darling, my love for all time. Then sleep. Every night.
I knew the night is when I think of him, I tried to exhaust myself in order to just faint as soon as I put my head on the pillow so I wouldnt be able to think. My fake plastic love.

Eventually I gave up. I had to. For the sake of me being sane and healthy again, for I felt like I was properly about to lose it. Of course I didn’t walk away before he lost his patience with me. First I let him make me feel like a complete loser, I was ashamed of even breathing. I couldnt do anything right.
I believed his criticism.
It finally came down to him begging me, please do not write to me or call me anymore. PLEASE!
That was the first time he was actually being definite.
So I stopped.

It took me a while to let go. I had to realise that it wasnt me who gave up on him. It was him who gave me up a long time ago.

Now, I don’t know what about him, but I do know that things had begun to get much better for me ever since.
Okay so not much really.
Fine so not at all.
I still miss him.
There you have it.

And now I’m back on cheerful sunny shidduch-land, where the sun shines brightest of all, and boy, let me tell you its all just hip and jolly over here, pink fluffy bunny rabbits all the way,
They even serve free martinies for the golden card members.

Something about this whole style act made me feel obliged to behave like the First Lady, no less.
Like, dressing up and acting properly and saying the right thing and never to accidently chas v’shalom spill my coffee, or to say BYE like the commoners instead of Kol Tuv.
Oh yes, the KOL TUV bit. He was very yeshivish, you see, and he was being very tznius with me.
Walking in front of me etc.
Don’t we girls just find that charming.

One time he took me to this chinese place for dinner. He immidiatly started showing off with his chopstick skills, while I looked at him, thinking how do I get myself out of this mess.
Me and coordination, well, we dont mix. He ignored my look of distress and encouraged me to try again.
“It’s very simple, look”, he said and did it so elegantly I wanted to puke.
The waitress, Gd bless her Goyish soul, noticed my dull chopstick performance and came running to our table armed with the tools of the 21th centuary.
A knife and a fork.
I reached my hands to recieve it from her, but this guy, ugh the nerve, just grabbed it from her hands and said “We wont be needing those, thank you”.
My head screamed “Maybe your MOTHER wont be needing those, but I clearly do!!”
(I tend to involve mothers, its a bad and very unelegant Israeli habit).
But aloud I only said, quietly, “Give me those, please”.
- “No
You need to learn how to use chopsticks.”
Why? For my next presidential visit to China??
I kept quiet. I used the damn chopsticks. It felt like terror.

I am not elegant. That’s why people LIKE me. I’m not sure why I even bothered trying to be one. A Rivki (“Oh my gaaaaaaaaad and stuuuuuuuuff?”)
Many people have told me I fit no category. I’ve always felt like theres an untold insult behind that remark, and still, I am not an “elegant, educated, pretty little sem girl” like this Joshie boy was obviously looking for. Go fish a Rivki.

Everything with him had to be by the book. So, after a certain amount of dates, he asked me to go meet his Rabbi. Fine, I did (entering the yeshiva, looking for the Rabbi, asking yeshiva guys for directions, nearly walking streight into the Beis Midrash – I’ve had more tznious days than that).

The surprising thing was that his Rabbi really liked me, told him I was exactly what he needs.
He was mildely excited by his Rabbi’s reaction, and called me right after that to tell me the oh so wonderful news. I passed the test.
Funny how MY Rabbi had told me he’s really, but really, not what I need.
In his words “He’s too different from you. He DOES what he’s told”.
I like to ask Rabbis opinions but it appears they say funny things. There was this Rabbi (now RIP) who had told one guy I’ve dated that I am his Zivug and shall remain that way till 120. Frightening.
Interestingly enough, that guy dumped me. Good joke.

ANYWAY, one evening I had a date with him so I’ve put on my make-up, got properly dressed for the occasion, put my bag across (slave to fashion) and left to meet him.
I remember we were standing at the windmill, He looked deep into my eyes, and said in a throaty voice
could you do me a favor?
It had a romantic tonallity, I wasnt sure what to expect, so I just said
Sure.
Then he paused, giving the moment the proper dramatic feeling….
He took another deep breath and said
Could you please put your bag on the SIDE and not ACROSS?
errrrr
Mr. Tznius.
I guess it had to do with my bra size.
I remember thinking “Is it possible for you to be even MORE tactless??”
DONT LOOK AND DONT TELL ME ANYTHING ABOUT IT EITHER.
oof.

After about a month of dating, we decided to go our separate ways.
It was a mutual decision. He finally realized what he needs is a “yes-yes” Rivki, and I had to face the fact I’ll forever be neither.

I very elegantly phoned him, and told him that.
He, even more elegantly, agreed with me.

His Rabbi still likes me.
And my Rabbi still wishes I’d do more of what I’m told every once in a while.

As per usual, we found a coffee-shop and sat down.
We started talking.
We started arguing.
About everything.
It’s difficult to explain, but every single topic that came up, we started fighting about. He was stubborn, and I am pretty opinionated, and that is the nicest way I can think of to put it.
We sat there for about six hours, yelling at each other. I couldnt leave because I didnt want him to have the upper hand.
I guess he felt the same way, because I dont think either of us were enjoying ourselves.
Everything he said made me want to voice my own opinions very definitely to him in the loudest way possible, and everything I said ignited him and set him off for hours.
At some point (close to the four-hour mark) I gave up even the pretense of being polite and just let loose.
We swore at each other, cursed each other’s families, and really went on a rampage…

His being Swiss, he knew a couple of languages besides for English and Hebrew. So when his cousin passed and the breadroll aimed at me almost hit her shoulder, he stopped everything and suddenly started speaking to her in German.
Now German is a very polite language, and the contrast between heavy Israeli curses and cute little German conversation is horrific.
I sat there, completely disoriented, while he said some stuff to her in this horrible-sounding language, about what I dont even know.
He could have been describing to her in detail how he wanted to choke me right there and then, and I wouldnt have known the difference.

She left and he picked up pretty much where he had left off… Luckily the time I had while he spoke to his cousin was used very wisely and I was armed with at least a hundred new insults and arguments to throw at him.
By the end of it I was exhausted.
It was time to go so I very succinctly said my goodbyes and left.
I got out of the restaurant and came to my flat, kicked around a couple of my flatmates and then decided to call my mother and go home.
I told her very briefly that I was extremely angry, that I wanted beer when I got there, and that I hoped she had taped the last ten Seinfeld episodes because that was how I envisaged the next eight to ten hours.
I went home, spent the evening as planned, and finally passed out from irritation.

The next morning my mother printed a sweatshirt for me. It said: My Next Shidduch Will Be Normal.
I still wear it.

The guy called me later that day. Just hearing his voice made me want to hurl my mom’s vase at the wall.
He asked me if I wanted to meet again. I said NO, that I didnt think we went too well together.
When the shadchan called him later on, he told her that if we didnt want World War III on our hands it would be best if we didnt meet again.
Ever.

Even though I agreed wholeheartedly it still irritated me.
And technically, just for the record, I broke up with HIM. Not the other way around.
The nerve of him.

We went out once. I agreed to go out again.
The second date was even better.
Now the third date was interesting.

He took me to some kever in Jerusalem to daven mincha, and me with all that baal teshuva inspiration… it was all very holy.
We got back into the car, both of us glowing. He started driving, and we were talking casually; he said to me – So what do you think, do you see a future here?
I said, Of course.
Why else was I going out with him?
A future, to me, is short-term still at that point. I see about as far as the beginning of the next meeting. And he really was great.
Of course I wanted to see him again.
He smiled.
I smiled.
He continued driving.
Straight past my seminary, in fact.
And onto the highway.

We drove for a while, both of us silent. It was a comfortable silence.
All of a sudden I realised that we were on the way to Tel Aviv, and I said to him, ‘So tell me, where are you taking me?’
I thought maybe he wanted to go to the beach, take a walk on the sand, see the sunset. How sweet, I thought.
He looked over and smiled. ‘To Tel Aviv.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘How come?’
Well everybody’s waiting, he replied. My Rav is there, and all the guys from yeshiva. To do a le’chaim.
Excuse me? I said, Calmly.
To the vort, he said. All confidence and glowing energy.
Stop the car, I said.
He looked at me questioningly.
Stop the car, I repeated. Now.
He hit the brakes and pulled over.
Now get out, I ordered him.
He got out, bemused but still pretty sure that we were headed towards the vort.

I phoned my Rabbi. In hysterics.
He told me it was as fine to be as insanely angry as I was. It was pretty much all I needed to hear.
The boy got the picture very quickly after that.

There was no vort.

I told the shadchan I want to meet him at a coffee shop. He said its not be so shayach for this guy, he might be too frum for that.
Well, that got me so irritated that I just had to insist on meeting him there.
My shadchan who is pretty helpless when it comes to coping with me, surrendered.

We met at a coffee shop.
I saw the guy, standing there with a gemora that he just had to bring with him just to make sure that I wont miss the fact that he’s into LEARNING.
He approached me very shyly and indroduced himself.
He never looked at me.
Hmmmm, I thought.
I followed him inside, wondering whether I’m dressed so untzniusly that he cant bring himself to look at me.
I glanced down at myself, reassured that I was wearing a long-sleeved, high-collared shirt and a long, long skirt with no slits or even any designs, of a very dull colour, or at least not screamingly red; and not, as he made out, a bright yellow hi-leg bikini, and sat down.
He still didnt look at me.

And because he was looking down so studiously, and his black Borsalino hat was covering that much of his face, I could just about make out the general structure of his chin.
Which is not enough for me. I mean, this guy might be my husband. We might have to have children together, and am I never going to know how they’re going to turn out??
He was beginning to seriously piss me off.

He spoke softly, and addressed me – in third person.
Kind of like how I talk to my Rabbi.
‘So,’ he said to me, ‘can _____ tell me about herself a little?’
Studying the table intently.
‘No,’ I said, ‘she cannot.’
‘But I can.’ I added pointedly.
I told him a little about myself and when he persisted in addressing me by my name and STILL IN THIRD PERSON, I kind of hit the roof.
Kindly.
I said, ‘So tell her, why does he talk to her as if he’s addressing his Rabbi?’
He mumbled something about its being respectful, and he was a very respectful kind of guy.
‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘But considering the fact that we might, just might, one day get married, dont you think its even a little appropriate to talk to me AS IF I’M HERE?’
My voice rose slightly.
He respectfully agreed with me, and apologized to the table very sincerely.
He didnt even know what I looked like.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘what is _______ doing with herself besides for learning at seminary?’
‘You mean, what am I (I! I! I!) doing with myself?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, gently tracing the pattern of the tablecloth.
I mean, I could have belly-danced around this guy for all the difference it would have made.

I decided to be blunt.
‘So tell me,’ I said, ‘why dont you look at me?’
He told me something about a personal vow he had taken, one that involved not looking at girls, anywhere, ever.
I was understanding. I said, ‘Yes, but if you’re on a shidduch, and you may end up marrying the girl, dont you think its allowed and perhaps even necessary to look at the girl?’
‘Perhaps,’ he muttered, ‘perhaps.’

I realized I was going to have to be a little harsher with him.
I said some things to him, in a very strong tone of voice, about the difference between wearing yellow bikinis and high-neck, long sleeved shirts in dull colours, and about how one of the basics of marriage is being somewhat ATTRACTED to the person, and about how I was personally offended at the fact that he was treating me like some sheigitz off the streets… things to that effect.
He agreed with me wholeheartedly from somewhere within his hat, and nodded constantly.

When kindness and extreme bluntness dont work for me, I generally realise that
a) this person has a very thick skin and
b) I have to be even worse about things, which is usually unpleasant for both parties involved.

I yelled some things about how dumb he was, how un-Toradik his behaviour was, how unacceptable the whole situation was, and how was he ever going to get married if he didnt look at the girl, with some asides about how he was going to have to rethink his approach to Judaism in general and girls in particular, and then I said Thank you very much for such a wonderful evening of Chizuk and Mussar, and I got up and left.

Without ever knowing what he looked like.