Making passes at Passover

What do you do when six single women descend on your community seder? Duck.

By Sheerly Avni

Apr 18, 2003 | I don't go out with Jews, OK?

It's not anti-Semitism, because I'm squarely of the tribe. To the best of my knowledge, it's not self-hatred; I mean, some of my best friends are Jewish. It's just the way things have rolled so far. The last guy I dated was Palestinian, the guy before that, Irish. Before that, Italian. Hungarian. Slav. Welsh. Norwegian. There was an Adam Rosenstein in college, but he broke up with me, in part because I was "too Jewish." (He later straightened his hair and changed his last name to Reed, so the problem may not have been all me.) And my male Jewish friends don't seem to kiss any mezuzahs either. They've all got excuses: "I dig straight hair," "They're neurotic," "They're too high-maintenance." And the old standby: "All the cute girls at the kibbutz junior year were from that Swedish peace group."

As for me, I've always blamed it on geography: I spent my 20s bouncing around between Idaho, Japan and Wisconsin, regions that don't really attract the Hillel set. I'll concede that it could also be a matter of taste. Hell, even the Palestinian was blond.

But my parents keep reminding me, as if I needed reminding, that I'm not getting any younger. And at a fundamental level, I do believe that the more shared background and cultural commonality you have with someone, the higher your chances of making it in the long haul. That's why I'm here at Jewish Community Center's annual seder, in a big green banquet hall in San Francisco, where for $50 a head, you can celebrate the Israelites' exodus from Egypt with 300 fellow wanderers who for some reason couldn't -- or wouldn't -- get home for the holidays.

And so why is tonight different from all other nights? Because I'm sitting alone at Table 26, which the nice lady who took my credit card number promised was designated for unattached men and women in their 30s and 40s. All around me, men pull chairs out for their wives, young couples rock babies wrapped in pink coverlets, and 75-year-old women pull waiters aside to insist that their husbands can not have any salt with their meals. Over here at Table 26, it's just me all by my lonesome at a table set for seven, and I'm staring at a bottle of grape juice, a bottle of Manichevitz, and a miniplate decked out with a slice of horseradish, a dollop of haroset, a thimbleful of salt water, and an abnormally small hard-boiled egg.

I spot a work friend of mine across the hall, and wave to him, feigning bright-eyed goodwill. He and his (Chinese) girlfriend have chosen a young couples' table, and I'm tempted to switch seats last minute. But just as I'm gathering up my things to join him, a fellow single takes a seat next to me. She introduces herself as Susie, and she is a cheerful woman in overalls. Just as we are exchanging pleasantries, two more women about our age settle in. One is a wholesome sturdy-looking dark blonde with chin-length hair -- a biochemist named June. The other woman, also blond, tastefully made up and wearing a glamorous black sequined top that I'm sure she feels is wasted on the present company, looks exactly like Ivana Trump.

We are soon joined by another attractive blonde with a soft, wide face and her hair up in a barrette. She takes a seat to my left, and as we all begin to settle in, fast giving up hope that any men will join us, the rabbi calls for attention. He explains that our table is our community, and suggests we begin the ceremony by taking a few minutes to introduce ourselves to the people who will be our "families" for the night.

I learn that Ivana Trump is a yoga instructor named Stephanie, that June has a degree in biogenetics, and that Susie only wears overalls. They in turn learn that I am a reporter doing a story on being single and Jewish and investigating whether or not Jewish men are good to date.

Kiss the spirituality of the event goodbye. The table erupts into a cacophony of frustrations -- women interrupting each other, women thumping the table for emphasis -- and soon the rabbi and the kiddush chanting, along with the other 272 people in the dining hall, have been completely forgotten:

"The problem? Look around you! There's the problem! There are no single Jewish guys left!"

"May as well finish Elijah's glass too, clearly no men are coming to this table."

"Aaah, the problem is that they all get so spoiled by their mothers."

"Yeah, and why do they all have sensitive stomachs? What is up with Jewish men and their stomachs?"

"I'm a real blonde. Write that in your article, I'm a real blonde."

"Do you think I'm too picky because I insist in my online dating profile that I want a Caucasian?"

"This rabbi is so great. He's the one who introduced me to my dating coach."

"Fourteen years we were together, but why should he marry me, I mean he was getting everything he needed, we were living together!"

"We've been together for five years, and suddenly he's having commitment issues?"

"Oh my God, look at you writing this all down! You're just like that woman on 'Sex and the City'!"

Next Page: Note to self: Don't tell a table full of Jewish men that they are controlled by their mothers

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