It's that time of year again. It's the Jewish Holiday Season. Replete with all the familiar and endearing family dysfunction it brings.
It used to be that celebrating Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was about family, new beginnings and resolutions, plans for an even better and more fulfilling life.
At some point all the spiritual meaning behind the holiday was replaced with something considered far more important: My ability to land a husband.
The new focus of the holiday was on what to wear to Temple, which Temple service to attend, to make sure to go to the one where all the young people are, and not to forget to make hair and nail appointments prior.
A holiday meant to bring a fresh start, to help us grow as people, to force us to reflect on who we were and who we want to become, had turned into an auction. Temple was no longer a place for prayer and communing with god, it was a place where prime grade A beef was for sale to the highest bidder. And I was the cow. Actually, not just me, but all of my female friends. We were a herd.
Now, I haven't been to Temple since I got married and never went after my divorce. But my mother is on a kick to get me back there. She thinks I might meet someone. I keep telling her I have someone. She says he doesn't count, because he's so far away. I told her that I'm moving there soon. She told me that as long as I'm not there yet, everything is fair game. Including meeting someone HERE, in Temple.
I can't argue with Jewish Mother Logic. And I've never even met anyone at Temple. Never. Not once. Why my mother thinks a miracle will happen this year, I don't know.
I'll outmaneuver her. There's so much fresh meat on the market right now, that parading old, used cow will only be humiliating. And anyway, someone's already bought this cow, he's just waiting for shipment.