My dear friend Marianna had just undergone liver transplant surgery at Stanford Hospital and was still coming out of anesthesia when the surgeons stopped by her bed to see if she had any questions.
“Umm-hmm,” she mumbled. “Are any of you Jewish?”
The doctors exchanged quizzical glances. “Why do you ask?” one gamely ventured.
“Susan Schwartz needs a husband,” she rasped.
Yes, it has come to this.
After five years, my friends have become so sick of my talking about my fruitless search for a relationship, that they are literally putting their lives on the line to find me one.
Sadly, my friends are currently dropping at a rate faster than dates are lining up. If I don’t find someone soon, they may namea new disease after me: bridesmaid’s syndrome by proxy.
Can meeting a Jewish man really be that difficult? In a word — yes. Of course, my view may be just a tad skewed. I live in the San Francisco area, where you can easily find gay Jews, Buddhist Jews or chocolate chip bagels. But not a decent rye. Or, a straight, single Jewish guy.
Let me put it this way: San Francisco is no Los Angeles. The Jewish community here is so small that it has been possible for me, in the span of a very few years, to have personally dated every SJM within a 75-mile radius. I say possible, because I of course did not actually have coffee with all of those men. I actually met only 5 or 6 percent of them. The other 95 percent I screened out on the phone.
While common wisdom says that there are six degrees of separation between any two people, among Jewish singles in San Francisco, there are only two.
What this means is that if I’m not dating Mr. X, chances are excellent I know someone who has or is. This makes it incredibly easy for me to show up on the first date looking precisely like his dream-come-true. All I have to do dress in his favorite color, order a martini just the way he likes it and offer his peculiar political opinions as if they were my own. By the end of the evening, he’s not only hooked. He’s convinced it’s the real thing.
Unfortunately, on the second date, when he’s telling me that he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this way, I usually feel compelled to remind him of the day, time and place he recently delivered the same line to a friend of mine. I’ve often noted that immediately turns our romantic balloon flaccid, but what can I say? Men aren’t the only ones who act like (fill in your favorite epithet).
Listen — you don’t think I know it’s crazy and crazy-making to be setting up these man traps? I know! Of course I know! That’s why I’m looking for a Jewish guy. Who else would put up with such mishugas?
Recently, my friend Nancy offered to set me up with an old boyfriend of hers, but I declined. I’ve decided that from now on I’m only accepting dates outside my area code, with men neither I nor any of my girlfriends knows.
It sounds scary, but I’ve learned that if I really want to find love, I have to date with abandon, sans benefit of inside information. I have to boldly go where none of my girlfriends has gone before. Which is why as soon as I finish here, I’m getting on the road to Fresno.
It turns out Marianna’s hospital roommate has a sister-in-law, who has a friend, whose brother is a private investigator, who works with a divorce attorney who’s Jewish.
I’ve never driven four hours for a coffee date before. I guess I just wanted to prove to myself that I am willing to go the distance.
If we don’t hit off, it won’t be a total loss. Marianna’s roommate tells me there’s a terrific bakery right in the center of town. And they make a great rye bread.