Today, we set a new record. I had just arranged myself in the taxi, after escaping from some social event that had no right ever to have taken place - and the ditzes of Herzliya Pituach will excuse me - when my honorary mother called me:
"Karin, I conducted a survey."
"Survey?" I asked in astonishment.
"I spoke with people," she answered in her 'shut up and listen because this will take a while' voice. "I asked men what they thought of you."
"What?!" I shouted so loudly that the meter started running backwards. Was it possible that she had done the worst of all possible things, opened an account in my name on JDate and started a full-scale search for a plump accountant, in whose muscle-devoid arms I could draw my last breath?
"I spoke to a few of my friends and their sons," she said, as I sighed in relief, "and I asked, you know, for fun, in theory, if they would go out with you." Clearly what had actually happened was that she'd tried to sell me off, but never mind.
"Do you know what I discovered?" I held my breath. "Everyone is totally scared of you."
Two mothers, one opinion
I have two mothers, one biological and one honorary, one Arab and one a Polish Jew, but, believe me, from experience – there's no difference between them. They both talk about me behind my back, wavering between pride at how beautiful I am (in their opinion, one of the most amazing phenomena on the face of the earth) and hysterical worry for the wellbeing of my little finger.
In their opinion, the reason for fear is my penchant to write freely about myself (would you believe it?) and about guys whom I date/sleep with/talk to, instead of making more of an effort to meet people. When I tell them an anecdote about a random meeting with some nancy-boy who comes up to my nipple and whose halitosis almost knocked out my teeth, two of the meanest, pickiest modeling agents in existence tell me to "give him a chance."
"Scared of you, I tell you," she continued. Ironically, I chose this moment to yell at the taxi driver that if he wasn't from Tel Aviv, he should let people know from the start, and proceeding to instruct him where to drive with angry hand gestures. "Yeah, I noticed they weren't lining up in droves," I replied.
"But there's something you don't know," she said, in a cunning tone. "Men under thirty actually are willing!"
"Oh, thanks. Really."
"What does age matter?" she asks defensively. "Men over thirty become wary. You don't understand what hysterical reactions they had. And, you should know, it's all because of the newspaper."
Things you don't know
"Maybe you're right," I answered, paying the ugly taxi driver his fee, plus damages. "The truth is that I'm dating someone under thirty right now and he really is okay." Nothing helps, she doesn't believe that such a guy exists, and perhaps it's true that we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves. For now, I'm still afraid to get undressed next to him. For a week I've been lying to him that "the time isn't ripe". Not ripe?! Any minute now, the time with rot and fall off the tree!
The problem with men under thirty is that, while on one hand they're braver, on the other hand, they're much better looking. If you see this as two positive points, you're not looking hard enough. If you squint very hard, you'll see me, two minutes after he has left my home, standing in front of the mirror with my cell phone, photographing myself from behind, sending it to myself by e-mail, enlarging it, and examining for three hours how my butt looks in a thong. Great, no? Just between us, it's a masterpiece.
And you'll need to threaten me with a lot more than eternal spinsterhood to prevent me from writing about it in the paper.