Selection 5: Pizza Break // Racheli Lebovics

It’s really amazing that you can spend close to ten hours with someone and not notice how bushy his eyebrows are. Then you hit date number four and it’s boom—why did I never notice this? I move my chair a little closer to the table and feel some of the butterflies in my stomach ease. If bushy eyebrows are a disqualifying factor, then I really have nothing to be nervous about after all. Dov looks up from his menu and smiles at me.

“So? What did you decide? Go ahead, get something fried, I won’t tell anyone.”
I force a laugh. Let him think he’s the first to think of telling such a clever joke to a nutritionist on a date. I may not be any closer to getting married, but I’ve definitely nailed the fake laugh by now. “Hmm, I think I’ll just take the grilled chicken salad. Fried food doesn’t really speak to me anymore.”

It’s been four dates and Dov is definitely one of the nicest guys I’ve been out with. He gets points for paying for parking, holding open all doors, and actually remembering my profession from one date to the next—very impressive stats. So I was actually looking forward to this date. But now, I’m here sitting across from him and I’m not so sure anymore. Looking at him across the table, it occurs to me that his nose is definitely on the larger side. Funny, I didn’t notice it until now. I shake my head a little and try to focus on what he’s saying. Some story about an accounting client of his who missed an email about an audit and got into big trouble. I smile politely and try my best to listen. Something’s not going right here; we were doing so well until now. The waiter comes with our plates and I put some chicken salad carefully into my mouth. Dov cuts into his steak and says, “How was the nursing home today?” He looks at me intently.

“Oh, same old, you know, meal plans, some consultations with the kitchen and new patient reviews.”
For a second, I think about my upsetting patient today, the one whose family was so nasty to all the staff. I know they were stressed about their father’s stroke, but I wish they would have been nicer and not so rude. We were all genuinely trying to help, and they acted like we were out to kill their father or something like that. I open my mouth to share what happened and then snap it shut. What am I doing? Who knows if this will be my last date with this guy? I certainly don’t need to start spilling out my kishkes to him.
I move my salad around on my plate and launch into one of my well-rehearsed, funny nursing home stories. I always keep one up my sleeve for a rainy day, or for a quiet date, I should say.

* * *

The next day is Tuesday, weigh-in day at Slim-Up, where I work once a week. I’m almost ready to go when the text comes through from Daddy. “Hey, honey, give me a call when you get a few minutes.” I squint at it, then shrug and grab my clipboard, passing by the hall mirror of my basement apartment for a quick dash of lip gloss. I’ve kind of gotten over that feeling of always being on display. At 27, what you see is what you get with me, but still, a little lipstick never hurt anyone.
I close the door to my basement apartment and feel the cold Brooklyn air slam me in the face. November brought the cold fast and furious this year. Maybe I’ll stop somewhere for a coffee, no sugar, skim milk of course. Ever since I’ve been running these weight loss groups for the Slim-Up center, I know that everyone is watching my waistline. Not that they weren’t before. But like I said, being a 27-year-old single girl living in New York, I’ve had to develop some pretty thick skin.
While I’m walking towards the weight loss center, I punch in Daddy’s number. It rings a few times and then I hear my Dad’s gravelly tenor come through the line. “Hi, Sweetie, thanks for calling me back.” His voice carries the sweet notes of home, reminding me of the wide set-back lawns of Springview and warm Sundays at our pizza shop.
“No problem, Dad,” I answer. I reach the cafe and swing open the door, the fragrance of espresso enveloping all my senses. Daddy continues. “So, Sweetie, you know my 65th birthday is coming up next month.” I blink and try to focus on the coffee menu. I can’t stand thinking of Daddy aging. I lost my Mom when I was only ten years old and my Dad’s all I have. I guess time stops for no man and all that, but it’s still hard to face. I stopped discussing my shidduchim with him a long time ago. The disappointment was too hard for me to deal with.
“I’ve decided that it’s time for me to close up shop here. Maybe sell the store and move down to Florida, you know, something like that,” he says.
I nearly spit out my latte. “Sell the store?” I splutter. Jack’s Pizza is a Springview icon, one of the few kosher restaurants around and open for the last 30 years. It’s actually the symbol of my childhood, my safe haven as I weathered the storms of adolescence without a mother. Daddy coughs.
“Well, yeah, I know it’s hard to make a change, Sweetheart, but I’m ready to relax a little. I’ve worked hard for a long time. Listen, it’s not happening tomorrow, I just wanted to give you a little heads up.” I look down at my cell phone and notice the time. Argh, I’ll be late for the group at this rate.
“Daddy, we need to talk more about this. I’m late for the weight loss group I’m running tonight, I’ll call you soon, okay?” I hold the hot coffee carefully in my hands as I power walk the three blocks towards Slim-Up. Experience has taught me that the best way to deal with something uncomfortable…is to not deal with it at all. So I open the door of the center, walk in, and put all thoughts of Jack’s Pizza firmly out of my mind.

* * *

Dina has already started when I get there, the semicircle of ladies sitting in folding chairs, and the scale waiting in the middle. I love this part of my job. This small room is my kingdom, the one place where I have something that the other women around me don’t. Every other day of the week, I’m “Shayna the Older Single.” On Tuesdays, though, I’m “Shayna the Slim Nutritionist.” And honestly, it feels great. Aside from that, it’s fun and a good way to meet people. Dina and I became friends when we were in the nutrition program together. She got married and had two kids while I managed to stay single and yet she still hasn’t given up on me, so that counts for a lot.
As we get ready to leave, Dina turns to me. “So. Tell me more about this guy you’re going out with. Must be going well—what date are you up to already?”
I blush a little. “The fifth. Eh, not sure. I mean, he’s definitely a nice guy. I just don’t know if I feel any sparks. You know? He’s pretty run of the mill: accountant, learns before and after work. That family, the Golds on the corner, you know, the one I go to for Shabbos sometimes, they set us up.”
We leave the center and pull our jackets closer around us against the bitter chill.
“Sounds good to me. I’ve told you a hundred times to forget about that chemistry nonsense.” Dina reaches into her handbag and winks at me.
“Oh, I almost forgot! Your highly intellectually stimulating reading material.” I laugh as I grab the magazines away from her.
“Does prince charming know that you secretly devour children’s magazines?” she asks.
“Actually, he does know, it came out at some point in the conversation.”
We continue walking towards her car, laughing, clouds of steam forming from our mouths as we talk. “So, right now you’re not sure what to do? You didn’t get back to the shadchan yet?” she asks.
I nod, my arms huddled against the cold.
Dina is quiet for a beat, then turns to me.
“Listen, you know I love you. Don’t take this the wrong way.”
“Okay?” I say hesitantly. It comes out like a question. I shiver. The cold has become unbearable as it bites and pulls at my cheeks.
“I care too much about you to watch you self-sabotage another shidduch. I think you need some help to try to move this to the next level.”
She starts fiddling with her phone and says, “My cousin told me about this amazing dating coach, I’m going to text you her info, okay? Every time you start to get somewhere with a date, you find things that bother you and you shut down. ” Her words come out in a rush. I’m listening but I feel my jaw tighten and my heart start to race as hot anger runs through my veins.
How dare she! What does she know? Cozily ensconced in a little family, going from two happy loving and living parents to a husband who takes care of her? What does she know about the endless dates or worse, the endless silence of no dates? She couldn’t know how it feels to lose someone you love, to face the turbulent high school years alone without the loving buffer of a mother to come home to every day. Of course it’s harder for me to connect to a date; I’ve been hurt so many times. My mouth is pursed tight; I don’t allow my angry thoughts to crystalize into hurtful words.
Dina continues, oblivious to my emotions. “I really hope you’ll call her. I’m sure she could help you!” We reach her car and she gets in. “I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds. I only say it because I care.”