Frum N' Flipping

Lots of things make me happy. Watching waves crash on the shore. Feeling the sunshine on my cheek. Falling into a steady rhythm as I cut through the water at the swimming pool. Seeing my nephew break into a smile, as the wind up train I bought him chugs around plastic tracks. Sitting with friends at a café and catching up on each other's lives. Writing the last line of a chapter I'm pleased with. The feeling is so good I want to bottle it up, keep it forever. Purim doesn't make me happy. Purim makes me sad. When Adar rolls around, and loudspeakers burst out with "Mishenichnas Adar"s, inside me I want to run away, to somewhere where there are no Purims, or perhaps hide out at home, until the worst has passed. When I try to speak of it, it sounds odd, peculiar, loner-like and spoilsport-ish. Who doesn't like Purim, the year's official day of happiness? I used to like Purim, once. When I was a kid, and planned my costume all year. Probably in ninth an...

"Mother's, take note. Don't allow your teenage daughters to shop without you! It is also vital to accompany kallahs . They are young and inexperienced and can't see how fitted clothes are alluring." I put down this week's Hamodia. "But it's not logical." I wonder out loud. "She's saying these girls are old enough to be brides, and choose their own husbands, but not old enough to choose their own clothes?" Surely if they are responsible enough to get married, they can be trusted to go shopping on their own? "Ah, but who's to say the brides choose their own husbands?" My mother points out the flaw in my logic. Oh. Good point. Well that makes sense then. Obviously if you carefully select a teenage girl's husband for her, you should be watching over her shopping too. As the letter writer points out, the Satan lurks in every store, and every item of clothing needs careful inspection by a mature woman of exper...

I used to pray, that my father live to see my wedding. I calculated the extra years he'd need, to make it, to be there. For getting married is entering a new stage, a new phase; I wanted him to see me at it, see me reach it, see me grown up. I wanted him to be pleased, and proud. But some things are not to be. He hasn't been around for a while, my dad. And even if he had been, so far he wouldn't have gotten to see that day.I'm still in the same stage I was then; same family status, same title before my name. Nothing's changed. Yet it has. I may not be a married woman, but I have grown up, nonetheless. I come home from work and run for my slippers and sweatshirt, rush to shed the constraining clothes of the day. He used to do the same. I thought it was funny, amusing, then. I attend the Shiurs that he used to love, that I used to find boring. I enjoy them now. I read his favorite books and columns. I appreciate his taste. I wish we could discuss them togeth...

I have a secret life. I can't speak of it in public. I can't mention it in polite society. "Where were you last night?" they ask. "Somewhere", I say. "I heard this funny story from…Someone." I pronounce. "I need to leave early" I tell my boss. "I need to do..Something." "We are learning about Rabbi __" my niece says. "Ooh, I went out with his grandson" I almost blurt out. I bite my tongue. "Why are you so busy?" they ask. "Why don't we ever see you anymore?" "Well I am working," I say. "And studying." "And dating!" I want to yell. ""Hours upon hours of dates. Huge portions of my week, my time, my energy." But I don't. Dozens of boys, hundreds of dates, thousands of hours, spent on an activity that must be kept under wraps, except with close friends and relatives. Phone calls and decisions and dilemmas; all unmentionabl...

"I'm slow" I tell him. "It takes me time to process things" "Oh come on" he says. "Really" I say. "You always want to have serious discussions when we are walking. But the stuff you tell me only sinks in a few hours later, when I'm already back home. I'm slow. I'm no good at on the spot debates." A while later he tries to tell me a joke. I guess the ending while he's half way through. "And you say you're slow. You always know what I'm going to say before I've even said it", he teases me. It's true, I do have an annoying tendency of completing people's sentences for them. "Ok, I'm not slow when it comes to understanding" I admit "It's only when it comes to feelings, opinions. Then I need to let in sink it before I can respond. I'm a bad arguer too. By the time I realize I'm upset, a good few hours have passed, it's all over. So I just get o...

The boys wait in the wings. Their fathers stand beside them, wearing the same hats and suits, indistinguishable aside for the beards they sport. Their mothers are also there, even though they won't be joining their sons and husbands on the stage, for the obvious Tznius reasons. Still, the women are needed, and often only with their nod, spotted on the sidelines, can the deal proceed, be finalized. For who can know a boy's true worth, if not his mother? The Rosh Yeshiva stands behind the podium. He welcomes the middle ages couples, spanning the rows of the auditorium. He doesn't mention the girls, sitting there too. Really the Rosh Yeshiva would prefer the parents came alone, without their daughters. He finds something a tad immodest, about the single girls examining the single boys from afar, as they are led on stage. The transaction should be about Torah, and Torah's value, not about looks. However, he has given up fighting that battle. The funds raised are sorely ne...

They are only 23. They are coming back from India, becoming students and waitresses, living life step by step, vaguely thinking of plans for the future. They are still young. I'm 23 already. I should be married, should be a mother; should have settled down, moved on. I shouldn't be in this position. I'm an older single. You suggest evenings for single girls, events arranged specially for those left on the shelf. I tried them. I went to Shiurim, organized for girls "in my situation". It felt like stepping back in time, back to my schooldays. I'm used to boardrooms and conferences now, not classrooms where we sit in rows, like good little girls, and are lectured to on why we should be brave, have faith, on how there is a light at the end of the tunnel. It felt like a quasi support group, where all that united us was our unmarried status. There's more to me, than being single. There's more to life, than waiting to get married. So I'm 23. I...