Sunday, December 12, 2010

Dry Spells

More than two months have passed since my last blog entry. I have no real excuse for the lapse, other than the numerous postdoc applications that had my fingers typing overtime last month. Actually, the truth is, I haven't quite known what to write. It’s been a bit of a dry spell... one of those moments when life seems to ebb more than flow....

It’s during life’s little lulls that I start to descend into those dreaded Bridget Jonesian fantasies. When was the last time I went on a proper date? Why don’t I ever meet anyone? Will I be single forever, left to die alone, only to be discovered days later by the neighbors when they can no longer bear the stench of kitty litter emanating from my one bedroom flat?

Yes, it’s been a bit of a dry spell.

I turn to girlfriends for advice. Anat said she was nearing 30 when she made a personal pact to opt for artificial insemination unless prince charming spontaneously showed up and offered to procreate with her the old fashioned way. “And then I just started hitting on random men," she added. And how did that work out for her? “Not well. They basically all thought I was a slut.”

Very encouraging. Her desperation led her to unlikely places, from pickup bars to a weekly rollerblading club to Argentine tango lessons. And that's where luck struck …her now husband just happened to be an aspiring tanguero.

(The tango bug bit me, too, but somehow my three-minute romances take place primarily with short, 65 year old men.)

I turn to cab drivers for advice. No, they just volunteer it. I honestly think that the preparatory course for cab drivers in this country involves – in addition to incessant honking and how not to yield at a roundabout – how to lecture single women on the virtues of marriage and motherhood. Love advice from an Israeli cab driver can take one of two forms (the following examples are taken directly from my own experiences):

1) Fawning encouragement: “What, a beauty like you? Single? Impossible! It's because you live in Tel Aviv. Everyone here is gay. Come to Ashdod. You won’t be single long."

2) Cautionary critique: “You young people! You just 'hang out.' You don’t take responsibility! Get a move on! You’re not getting any younger!”

Needless to say, I’ve yet to meet a cab driver who deserves a regular column in Cosmo.

Last week I was sitting in a café munching on salad, engrossed in a book. I looked up and saw a cute guy working on his laptop. He was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with artwork by the Haida, the local First Nations tribe from British Columbia. I asked him about it, and I suppose that broke the ice. His parents bought it for him during their trip to Canada. He was born in Israel and raised in Australia, and resettled here three years ago. We chatted for a few minutes and then I, out of the blue, said "Nice to meet you" (having neglected to ask for his name), and walked out the door.

What?!

I complain about dry spells and then a perfectly nice guy falls into my lap (pardon the expression), and I bolt? What’s that all about?!

"OK, that's it," I thought, as I neared the crosswalk. I mustered all the courage I had, turned around, marched back into the café, walked right up to the guy and asked him if he wanted to have coffee sometime. And guess what? He did.

Today it rained like mad. The first rain this thirsty land has experienced in several months. You know what else? The guy called. We have plans Tuesday night. Jaded spinster-in-the-making that I am, I’m keeping my expectations low. But so what? At least I've had an important reminder: sooner or later, every dry spell must come to an end.

And when it rains, it pours.