December 6, 2007
Burden of proof
I've been flirting since the first dance at my bat mitzvah. I've been dating since I pegged my jeans. My friends tell me not to compromise; they tell me not to settle. But how long am I supposed to wait for a prince who may never come? Should I give up hope? Should I just grab what's in front of me? I'm ready to throw in the tallit.
I want proof of life. If everyone's so sure that men like this are out there, why are they holding back? Why not introduce me to them? Why not set us up? And while they're at it, why not find out if Big Foot is single? And Jewish.
If these caring guys with three decades, six figures and a bris to their name are real, bring 'em on. Show me the money. Or at least their hiding place. If these men exist, they must be in the witness protection program. Or locked in the dungeon. Or frozen in Jaba's den. Cuz they're not anywhere I am. Not at the bars in Hollywood, the Shabbats on Pico or in line at Pavilions. I even wandered around Home Depot. I got nothing. Except a new DeWalt power drill.
Where are they? I doubt I just overlooked a giant pool of eligible men. I always notice talent. Is there some underground society of bachelors who are just waiting to spontaneously surface? That's what my friend Ann and I think. It's the only explanation. Somewhere there must be a secret clubhouse where all these good guys are hiding, where all the other fish are swimming.
I can picture it now. The Loyal Order of MOTs. They gather here after work and on weekends. Outfitted with dark wood, surround sound, and plasma TVs, this urban Elks Lodge is a haven for our future husbands. They down a cold beer, sometimes a Scotch neat. They have uninterrupted fantasy football drafts, "Madden" tournaments and all-night poker games. They strategize about climbing the corporate ladder and starting their own business. The talk Obama vs. Clinton, renting vs. buying, natural vs. Jewish blondes. And sometimes? They don't talk at all. With their Members Only jackets and their secret handshake, this is where the boys are. It's Playboy Club meets yeshiva. The sign above the door reads: "Shalom. No girls or 'Grey's Anatomy' allowed."
The whole thing is very "Joe Sent Me." They knock three times and whisper low. OK, so Jews are more loud talkers than whisperers, so let's go with they shout low. Either way, I bet membership is exclusive. I bet they haze their pledges. They tempt these newbies with perfect women, and only the ones who resist, who prove they'll wait 'til their mid-30s to mate-up, get a bid. I bet the club has a gym, a driving range and a batphone to Domino's. I wonder if they have private stables, where theses potential princes can rent white horses. I mean how many hot doctors are also urban cowboys? They must ride in on the club's rental car.
So where do I find this club? How can I crash a meeting? How can I break in? And how are these allegedly amazing guys still single? Maybe they were too busy making a movie, making partner or making out with many partners. Maybe they have wedding block or think the girl is always greener. Maybe they're not ready for marriage and want to hang with other guys who are dawdling. I don't know. I don't get it. If these guys are so great, why are they in hiding? If these guys are so ideal, what are they doing at a gas and sip on a Saturday night? By choice, man. By choice.
This choice is nothing new. Throughout history, great Jewish men have chosen to kick it with their boys. You think they allowed women to join the Maccabees? Nope, just Judah and his band of brothers. Think women were invited for a lovely hike up the mountain? Nope just good 'ol Abe and Issac. Think women got to rock Jehrico with trumpets and music? Nope, that would be a boys' band.
Which is why, despite the lack of evidence, part of me believes that this secret fraternity is real and that my future husband is a member. Actually, the kind of guy I'd marry would be on the board.
The thing is, Ann and I belong to a secret club, too. The smoking-hot, witty women who happen to be single club. The total babe club. The "don't you wish your girlfriend was smart like me?" club. We should have our social chairs plan a mixer. Or a pinning. Or I simply invite any man in hiding to give me call. Ditch your secret clubhouse and reveal yourself. Take me on a date. Take me in your arms. Take me to In-N-Out for grilled cheese. It doesn't matter to me, but let's stop playing hide and seek. Let's just hang out. Who knows? If things go well, I might let you into my private clubhouse. And believe me, that membership has its privileges.
Carin Davis lives in Los Angeles and can be reached at email@example.com.