So I’ve been told that I have to write about all the random people I meet. So here is the first go at this . . .
Let’s set the scene. 5:30 pm, outdoors. It’s LA, late March – so it’s beautiful. Breezy, still sunny even though close to sunset, warm with the smell of eucalyptus in the air (nah, making that part up – there aren’t any eucalypti near the hair salon).
I had just spent an hour at the hair salon – one of those brief periods of peace and relaxation. I do love a good head massage.
So my hair is that perfection that only happens when I leave the salon, smooth and straight, shiny and yummy smelling. I’m walking a little taller since I feel that post-coital like peace of the salon session. I pass the synagogue on my way to my car. I see two men walking in my direction. The path is a little overgrown with birds-of-paradise flowers, so I slowed down so they could pass. The older gentlemen (I’ll call him the Rabbi) said, “You are glowing! Isn’t this a beautiful day? Are you Jewish?”
I don’t even think anything of this and just respond with “Um, no.”
“Cause my mom’s not Jewish.” That should have been it right, these men (I thought) were Hasidic, they don’t want to talk to the brazen woman with short hair (not even covered!), legs all bare and showing, right? Wrong.
I don’t remember what happened in between the I’m not Jewish part and the part where I was being shown pictures . . . But the Rabbi was asking me to coffee. The younger man, fresh from Israel – “Look! What a handsome man he is? He played soccer in Israel! Look! Look at those muscles.”
He was, too. Handsome. As a younger man, without the curls – not that they are inherently unattractive, it just didn’t work for him. His soccer photos, yes – he played pro Soccer in Israel according to the photos, were really nice. Sigh.
I’m standing on the corner being asked to coffee by an old Rabbi and a younger man, since I looked like a “smart young woman.”
I tried gently saying no. There was more about what a good catch the soccer player would be, though I would have to work on his English. He would be a good provider . . . yadda yadda yadda.
“Let’s all have coffee . . . and cake. Come. Have coffee and cake with us.”
Now the best part of the story: my friends comments on my Facebook status . . .