A Kosher Dating Odyssey: One Former Texas Baptist's Quest for a Naughty & Nice Jewish Girl (9 page)

Being straight about my interest in Judaism also connected me to a very specific dating cohort: women rabbis. Some were full-time pulpit rabbis, while others combined their rabbinic background with another career, such as therapy or social work. Whatever the background, we always had plenty to talk about.

One rabbi—now happily married—gave me a tefillin set (defined earlier as black straps with black boxes containing Bible verses that Jews wear during morning services on weekdays) that I use when I attend the Sunday morning minyan at my synagogue. I let her know I how touched I was by the gift and I use it and always think of her.

Another observation: women rabbis always host excellent seders. I know from experience. They’re rabbis! They’re women! Would you expect anything less?

The only downside to dating a rabbi—when you go with her to a Jewish event she’ll typically get sidetracked talking to a colleague, leaving you to your own devices for a quarter-hour or more. I know from experience.

When women and I connected through Judaism, we often shared other interests. A passion for faith translated into connections involving creativity, languages and social issues.

For example, K in Connecticut, a slender, athletic redhead and educator, wrote me:

K and I dated several times and I thought highly of her. I still fondly remember our first date at a Thai restaurant in New Haven. I escorted her back to her car in a parking garage late at night, which she appreciated. No romance happened. She wanted a man without young children, and she found what she wanted. I met her husband at a party that they held before moving to another region. She still sends me updates on her life there and I’ve given her job leads.

What drew me to a profile? I always liked women who were educated and articulate. But being blessed with XY chromosomes, I’m as visual as the next guy. Photos first grabbed my attention. A woman could write random ALL-CAPS gibberish ... with mindless ... ellipses ... and text talk LOL ROFLMA ((((hugs))))) OMG smiley face, but with attractive photos, she’ll still get rapt attention from guys who grow dizzy with desire at the sight of a well-turned ankle. That included me. Guys want to gobble the eye candy before they glance at the radishes and rutabaga.

No photo generally meant bad news in the appearance department, although I was always willing to accommodate women who, for work reasons, didn’t want their photos online. These were the therapists, social workers and criminal defense attorneys. Otherwise, I had an innate ability to pick out profiles of Russians, Iranians and Latinas everywhere; it must have been the dramatic eye makeup and Slavic/Hispanic pouts (recall that my first post-marriage date was with the perfectly packaged Nadezhda). Just about every woman I ever wrote to with those backgrounds responded to me, and vice versa. Women from Israel, while great looking, never really connected, unless they were Americans who had moved there.

I often liked the pictures and never contacted the women. I appreciate a snug sundress or evening gown as much as the next guy, but I can tell when I have zero chance of a response. And if a profile clearly indicated I wouldn’t make the grade (height, location, career, kid issues) then I wouldn’t write. But I could enjoy a stroll through the candy shop. However, I found hundreds of women worth a contact; beyond the photos, what appealed to me? Here is a fanciful best-of profile that pulls together all themes I liked, mixed with a dollop of wishful thinking:

Notable emails sent to me:

For the record, simplicity and a winning smile can be enough to lead to a great connection. My Significant Other simply said this on her profile:

And you know what? What she says in her profile is exactly what we do and share. It was as simple as that.

Much as in a job interview, the stories we tell on dates are designed to make good first impressions. In fact, so much of this adult dating stuff seemed like nothing more than the recitation of preset narratives. Two people become acquainted and, as they proceed, start talking. Initially, conversations rarely progress beyond the standard questions posed and reliable answers proffered. If the elusive chemistry exists, the masks slip down and less polished selves may emerge. Then the real connection begins.

That “real connection” happened very few times in my online dating journey. We clicked and I could sense potential, the first rustling of distilled hope and longing against a background of increasingly mechanical introductions. A woman and I would talk and share, or, if we lived close enough (not always the case), actually meet and stroll through the city or a park. We would reveal jagged bits of biography to signal trust, a willingness to explore what our contact could become. Those bits, I discovered, could also be a warning: beware.

I recall one lingering summer afternoon picnic on a lake with a woman I’ll call the Swan. After stop-and-go contacts, the warmth of the encounter convinced me that we both had our hearts pointed in the same direction. To my shock, she leaned over and kissed me and I finally got the message. But later, standing in the parking lot, the Swan remarked, “I could bolt at any time.” I remembered but ignored this comment, so laden with prophecy.

And bolt she did. Call it a matter of timing, of circumstance, of appearance, or simply, “She’s just not that into you.” The exact recipe of the fatal brew does not matter; I’ve always thought that if there’s a will, there’s a way, and for one of us the will was not there. Our fitful migrations into each other’s lives left me feeling buoyant and then, always, bereft and abandoned. Similar possibilities flickered and ended—throttled by distance, hesitation, self-delusion, misunderstandings, the competition. I sketch some of those stories elsewhere. I had my share of stunned surprises staring at the final email, the last blunt conversation, the ceiling at midnight. And I caused my own share of disappointment and confusion.

Yet I found that heartbreak carries a functional value. I’ve hung around management consultants enough in my career to adapt their world view. I sometimes think in terms of costs and benefits, the bottom line, the so-what learned from a situation, moving from the current state to a future state. Could I ever find the ultimate MECE relationship, that is, “mutually exclusive and collectively exhaustive”? (MECE is a grouping principle that management consultants use to find solutions to client problems. Come to think of it, a durable relationship should, in fact, be mutually exclusive and collectively exhaustive, don’t you think?) Never one to know when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em, I would construct a flow chart of romance through project-management milestones, digressions, decision trees and quantitative analyses. That net-net value of heartbreak and experience emerged in response to questions that singles like to ask. Over the years, my dates were curious about what had worked and failed, my online experiences, my emotional engagement, what I was seeking. Did I date much? Did anything click?

Such questions are more than light banter at Starbucks. While I was once memorably called a “self-involved prick who just doesn’t get it,” I actually do have some basic insights into the dynamics of dating and the human condition. These kinds of questions are anything but casual time-killers; I’ve read enough Deborah Tannen books to know about rapport talk and the urge to connect. They aim to sound out my past and intentions, my goals, my hopes, my wariness and openness. After initial hesitation to talk about the past, I learned to combine honesty and discretion. When asked, I replied, “Yes, I had some things that looked promising. We really connected. But the timing wasn’t right. They just didn’t work out.”