Seven years ago I sent a Facebook message to a stranger:
"Okay, this is going to seem incredibly forward and possibly a bit bizarre, but I hope you'll continue reading. . ." Throughout the month of January 2012 I had been seeing a guy I met online, a graduate student studying astrophysics or some such science in Chicago. He was nice enough, but I could tell after a few weeks that it wasn't going to work out. When I told this to a friend over email she responded "Well that's too bad. BUT there are plenty of other fish in the sea! You should really check out this guy, . . ." So I did. I checked out his Facebook. I checked out his JDate profile. I Googled him. My 21st-century-pre-date-research (which is definitely not the same as stalking) revealed he was smart, goofy, and almost definitely not a serial killer, so I sent him a Facebook message. Of course, I knew that when he checked Facebook only the first line or so of the message would appear before he clicked on it to read more, and I needed to make sure he wouldn't immediately dismiss my single attempt to contact him. He responded two days later, presumably after doing his own 21st-century-pre-date-research (definitely not stalking). Apparently what he saw (or didn't see) was enough to convince him because, as he wrote in his response, "It's a good thing I kept reading because that opening line really made it seem like the rest of the message was going to be asking me to donate money for a lost prince of Nigeria."
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A couple months ago I found myself at large, relaxed Shabbat lunch filled with about 15 people, half of whom were new to me. I eventually wandered my way into a conversation with two young women where we spoke about our careers, their dating lives, and my marriage. One of them had recently started dating a medical student and was trying to wrap her head around his education, so I began explaining the detailed process of becoming a doctor - not just getting the MD with your medical school diploma, but the training that follows. After what ended up being a rather long explanation, she said with eyes wide: "Wow, I bet your husband wouldn't be able to describe your career training so well!" The stairs of the Medical College seemed at once insignificant and insurmountable. We walked together, both full of insincere confidence.
“We can do this,” I said, more to myself than to him. “And I will be happy. But whatever happens, we’d better not end up living in Borough Park, Brooklyn.” I smiled at the sheer absurdity of the thought -- being not only in New York, but in a neighborhood where Yiddish was the lingua franca, where I would be an outcast. He squeezed my hand and I knew he hoped his parents and classmates wouldn’t see even that tiny indication of the trepidation we both felt. |
AuthorNashira is a music teacher and proud Small-Town Jew who, after surthriving six years in Brooklyn for her husband's surgical residency, is finally back in Wisconsin where she belongs! At least until the end of the two-year surgical fellowship, that is. It's a wild ride, and she's ready to tell you all about it! Archives
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