Woman on the Verge of Paradise: Working my Quaker-Jewish-Nun Attire

Sign reads "May you find Paradise to be all its name implies."

Thanks for joining me on the verge of Paradise, as a new chapter of my life unfolds. If you're new to Life by Chocolate, or just madly trying to catch up with your blog reading (Can we ever truly catch up?), this non-fictional autobiographical story begins here. While I strive for accuracy regarding place and time, I am altering a few names as I see fit. This does not include Nora Profit, Mimi or Mojo the cat. Those names are perfectly right and perfectly real.

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My dilemma lay in finding an outfit apropos for both worship and salsa. I couldn’t slip into my new shirt that dares to display cleavage. Oh no, I can never wear that one, especially not for prayer. I even bought it on my second day here for a new image thing, but insecurities triumph. It’ll just look cute on the hanger until I die and thereafter. Yeah, the only safe option was my modest standard Quaker-Jewish-Nun garb: a black skirt falling below the knees and an equally black shirt with neckline so high it threatened to prevent inhalation, topped by my Star-of-David pendant. Perfect.

Properly decorated for my first Friday night on the town, I headed for the Congregational Church, meeting site of the Chico Havurah[1]. They’re a nice group of Jews, not too woo-woo, not too traditional. I didn’t need to frolick around embracing everyone, nor was I – on the other hand- required to hide my elbows from the men lest said elbows arouse their lustful desires. There are no eligible bachelors in the group to crave my elbows anyway. I’ve made friendly connections with some cool women, though. So it goes.

We chatted after services and Laila inquired about my writing.

“It’s humor mostly, my dating nightmares, stuff like that.” Without hesitation, I launched into the Mr. Cemetery pitch. I’ve got it down to 14 seconds by now: “It’s outrageous what these men put in their ads. There’s Mr. Cemetery, who’s given me the best reason for celibacy. He’s looking for shared cemetery in a relationship. He believes that if the cemetery’s there, everything else can fail. Yep. It’s pretty morbid out there.”

With that, I bid the Jewish gals “Shabbat shalom” and headed to Café Culture. My night would surely get exciting. I just knew it, until I pulled into the parking lot. Why did I get a space directly in front of the club? Note to self: You are not in the Bay Area anymore. Yet the place emitted Berkeley beatnik. With African masks spotting the walls, yoga retreat postings, and fliers advertising drumming circles, I was at home.

Plus, I danced with some cute, sweet partners during the salsa lesson. I wasn’t happy about this, though. They were women. A total of 12 females and 3 males attended. Reminder note to self: You are not in the Bay Area anymore.

Alas, Javier won my heart, the dark and sexy instructor with an ivory smile and manly physique. Wow. Less than a week here, and I'd already found my dream man. Could it be so easy? I knew he felt it too, since he approached me for a dance right after the class. “You’ve done this before,” he told me. That clenched it. I began planning our wedding song list. But the dance ended, and Javier proceeded to ask every woman (one by one) for a dance.

I sat for hours or minutes pretending not to sulk. But wait! Javier was darting my way again. Slowly and methodically, he reached for a glass of water that rested on the table in front of me. And then, he took a sip. He then placed it down, and then walked away. I could almost hear an obnoxious man’s voice over the microphone announce: “Would the woman who’s dressed in Quaker-Jewish-Nun attire, the one who’s sitting alone at the table – as in, all by herself – please report to the losers’ section. That’s 'losers'' with a capital ‘L’ babe.” I pulled my right hand up from my lap to flip him the bird, just as Rory asked for a dance. Then, there was Juan. Next, Luis.

Finally, I departed with pride, though I could best describe my night as “not exciting.” Reminder of reminder note to self: You are not in the Bay Area anymore. Get used to it, self. Non-excitement abounds.

I landed home to an email from my new gal pal, Donna. Though her spare room wouldn’t suit my needs, Donna and I get along splendidly. One month after moving to Chico, she has a new beau. They met through plentyoffish.com. “It’s your turn to place an ad now,” she wrote. “I need someone to swap stories with.”
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[1] A community of Jews that meets for worship and socializing.