tisha b'av, my new favorite holiday

By now it should be pretty obvious to you that we Jews are indeed the “Chosen People,” considering that not only do we have our own secret language, but we also have our own calendar. Yesterday corresponded with “Tisha B’Av,” or the ninth of, umm, Av. Evidently, not one, but two temples were destroyed on this day in history (first by the Babylonians in 586 BCE and the second by the Romans in 70 CE), as well as quite a lot of other tragedies involving spies, exiles, and revolt. In fact, last summer’s Hezbollah-sponsored firework show was still going strong at this time of year. And consider Israel’s disengagement from the occupied territories (which most of my neighbors would unanimously agree was quite the unfortunate catastrophe) – it began on August 15, 2005, or the 10th of Av. Mere coincidences? I think not. This is clearly like Friday the 13th times a million.

Besides waiting around for disaster to strike, there are a number of modern-day ways of celebrating Tisha B’Av, most of them intended to limit enjoyment and invoke feelings of sorrow and repentance because we all know that one Yom Kippur just isn’t enough. Below is a partial list of prohibitions:

1. Food and drink, including water
2. Shower, bath, bidet, etc.
3. Lotion and other skin products
4. Leather apparel
5. Any form of physical affection

And my personal form of participation:
1. Doesn’t fit into my diet.
2. Do you even know me? I showered twice.
3. Like I’m going to walk around in public without deodorant.
4. Do Crocs count as leather?
5. I mean…

A friend of mine reminded me that one of the other traditions is that you don’t eat meat in the week leading up to the pestival. Did I comply? The simple answer is yes, mostly because the only items containing meat in my repertoire of meals happen to be sandwiches and eggs, neither of which I’ve had the opportunity to prepare in the last seven days. Incidentally, many people also believe that the messiah will be born on Tisha B’Av.

Although I currently do not possess any babies of my own and I hope to remain childless for the majority of my cognitive, adult life, I’m growing increasingly aware that my ovarian clock is ticking away. Additionally, if I want a fair shot at producing the next messiah, I’ve got to be married by, oh, Rosh Hashanah, Sukkot at the latest.

So I did what any self-respecting girl would do in my situation. I headed to the kotel, or the “Wailing Wall” as it is so endearingly nicknamed, because what better way to spend the saddest day of the year than to go find yourself a Jewish husband?

I told my uncle about my plan.
“Uh, make sure you dress modestly,” he replied with a cautionary groan like a foghorn.

In Israel, modesty is a euphemism for religious, so I knew exactly what to wear: my tried and true frum skirt. The boys on Ketura couldn’t resist me in this little number in spite of the fact that it only goes a couple inches below my knees, but hey, that’s what leggings are for.

I arrived at the kotel around noon and found a nice, accessible area in the middle, where I stood in my most inviting pose, legs spread shoulder-width apart and hands on my hips. After about five minutes of waiting and not so much as a phone number, I knew that I had to be more proactive. Now, I’m not exactly an expert on picking up guys… ha, I can’t even write that while keeping a straight face. Let’s try this again. Now, I may be an expert on picking up guys, but the religious ones completely baffle me – besides being intimidating as all hell, they’re completely immune to my best lines.

I frantically ran through some ideas in my head. “Atah medaberet anglit? (You speak English?)” No, that’ll never work, everyone here is American. “My lips are tired, mind if I rest them on yours?” Blast! They’re all shomer negiyah, no touchy! I was left with only one option: prayer.

I cautiously approached the wall, the right side of course. The entrance was crowded with a herd of creepy panhandlers, one of whom waved a Tupperware of gold coins in the air. “Please, bavakasha, agarot!” she shrieked again and again. I fished through my bag for a ten-agarot piece (roughly 2.5 US cents) and extended it to her, before quickly reeling my arm back in when I realized she wasn’t handing out red bracelets. I mean, how did she expect to earn the big money without rewarding me with some kind of treasure?

There was no empty spot along the wall on account of it being a holy day and all, so I stood by the mechitzah (divider) between the two genders’ sides; I figured, G-d probably can’t hear prayers from our end of the wall, so the best I can do is position myself near a male minyan. Over the buzz of women crying and wailing, I could just pick up a nearby man carrying on about something in Hebrew. I inched closer to the noise, hovering less than an arm’s distance from my potential baby-daddy.

After finally losing interest, I wavered around for a few more minutes, desperately trying to think of something to do with myself. I didn’t even have a siddur (prayer book) with me – in fact, the only reading material in my bag was “Parkinson’s Law or the Pursuit of Progress.” That obviously wouldn’t do, so I looked to my peers for ideas. Most of them were engaged in some kind of woodpecker motion, bending over repeatedly toward the wall and moaning here and there. I turned to my left and noticed a mother with what appeared to be a small boy of about six or seven years; I then realized that I could never get any praying accomplished, what with a member of the opposite sex present. I crept backward toward the exit, occasionally checking over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t about to trip over a beggar.

I waited a few more minutes in the courtyard area to give G-d a chance to answer my requests, but alas, I received a grand total of zero marriage proposals. I blame my misfortune in large part on the fact that after walking at a brisk pace to the Old City in 5000-degree heat, I was sweatier than a bar mitzvah boy in a three-piece-suit. In addition, I’d estimate that roughly ninety percent of the people present were tourists, plus some douchebag had built an extending mechitzah through the courtyard so as to further separate the genders; it kind of ruined the people-watching element of the Western Wall.

Upon leaving, I once again found myself in an area dominated by signs written in Arabic and women in Muslim head coverings. I didn’t really know where I was, but I continued walking straight until I finally reached an opening, which I recognized as the Damascus Gate – uncharted territory for my kind. I exited and took a deep breath of freedom, and started on my long walk home.

Suddenly, a handsome fellow approached me. “Do you know how to get to the Jewish area of town?” he asked me in the original English, with desperation and a slight crack in his voice. Being the good citizen that I am, I escorted him back to America, I mean Jaffa Street. Alright, so he was prematurely balding, and he had a little bit of a hunchback, and on top of that he’s a law student from the Midwest; I still maintain that he is physical proof that there is a g-d, or at least that He loves me enough to bestow upon me a husband.


BTW, I did my research.