Making a Fast Break

Traditionally breaking the Yom Kippur fast is a community event, either done privately with close family and friends, or at temple with your other members of the congregation who pinch your cheeks incessantly while you desperately attempt to dive for the bagels and lox before they're all gone (usually this bagel diving is an unsuccessful endeavor). Usually I spend Yom Kippur with my family and end up with bruised cheeks of all sorts and no bagels at the end of the day.

This year, I spent Yom Kippur in the city. Mr. Artsy Hotpants took me to services at the gay synogogue, where we were joined by My Little Vidipookikins. It was wonderful to have my "family" with me; when I bawled like a baby during the Yiskor service (the service honoring the dead so the bawling is quite justified), MAH turned to me at one point and smiled and winked. It made all the difference in the world. Its nice to spend the holidays with people you love dearly. Its even nicer when they don't make fun of you for blubbering like an idiot over a dead brother. These things are important in life. After 4 hours of temple, we were ready to go and made a beeline to exit into the torrential rains that were falling. MAH and I split ways, and I went to My Little Vidipookikins' and drank tea all afternoon (I was fasting, but not from liquids as I'm sick and that would have just been stupid) while we talked about what the holiday meant, what we wanted to change within ourselves, and of course...boys. Okay, so perhaps the last didn't exactly tie in, but come on...gimme a break. You can only do so much atoning before it gets old, right?

Then I went to meet Doc Harley at his office as the good doctor had invited me the day before to go with him to his sister's for break the fast. I had agreed, quite flattered to have been invited. That was before the fear set in. That was also before I knew I would be meeting his whole family.

Umm, that would be meeting his whole family on what is only the most important of all the Jewish holidays.

And did I mention it was his whole family?

So on the way there, we're talking about the differences in our families' mealtime traditions etc. He thinks its horrible that when I was growing up no one was allowed to leave the table until everyone was finished; I don't think its horrible, I think its polite. Its the French way. We chalked this up to cultural differences (or at least I did, he can think whatever he wants) and moved on to the topic of portions. He always thought it odd when his friends' parents would cook specific portions per person, as in his family they had like 3 portions per person (its evidently a Jewish tradition I missed out on being, again, half French). I said that my mother was very specific about portions as she was always the good nutrition nazi. that's what I call her, the good nutrition nazi.

DH stopped, turned and looked at me, and said "Don't say that word tonight. The N word." And I said "Nazi? Okay. I won't." He replied, "Yeah, its just not a good idea to say the N word at Yom Kippur dinner in a family that lost everyone to them." Now he had already told me his parents were Polish, and I guess I had assumed they had come here before the war. So I asked, "Umm, are your parents survivors?" Yup. Not only are they survivors, but they were the only ones from each of their families still alive when the camps were liberated.

My capacity to insert my foot directly into my mouth is truly astounding.

This faux pas, although made before we arrived, only increased my anxiety. I was actually sweating, despite the cold, by the time we arrived.

We get into the foyer, where there is a rack on which to hang our coats, and I notice that some people have taken their shoes off and left them at the door. This propelled me into an outright panic. See, I wore the really cute textured tights that I love, with these great boots that happen to come high enough to cover the gigantic gaping hole in the tights where just about half of the leg is missing. I turned to DH with my deer-caught-in-headlights expression, and said in a trembling panicked whisper "Umm, people are taking their shoes off! Do we have to take our shoes off?" He said "Not if you don't want to. Do whatever makes you feel comfortable." He paused, and said "I'm keeping mine on." I breathed a gigantic sigh of relief and said "Oh thank god! I have a gigantic hole in my stockings where about half the leg is missing!" He said "Ditto for my socks. That's why I'm keeping my shoes on. My socks have huge holes where my toes breathe. All my socks do."

Bless his heart, because unbeknownst to himI checked out his socks when we got back to his apartment and they were most certainly whole and intact.

His family was incredibly nice and very friendly and, well, nice. I, however, instantly turned into a social idiot who did best conversing with the 5 year old nephew. I made a great impression on the 5 year old nephew though. My witch's voice was certainly a hit, as well as my ability to drink the scariest looking water ever (with about 10 gallons of food coloring in it)...oops, I mean "brew", "witches brew" to be specific.

Had I only been able to equally impress the adults with such dynamic skills.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think I made a bad impression exactly, I'm sure I came across well as far as feral children go. Make that feral children who have yet to master the language skills necessary for communication. There was a lot of friendly nodding and smiling whever I clumsily attempted to trip all over my words. I mostly remained silent whenever possible.

Part of it was intimidation because his family is all very successful in whatever big careers they all have. Big non-artistic successful careers. Careers which actually make money and all. I don't think anyone there would have worn shredded stockings. I definitely know that this does not make them in any way more valid than me; on the contrary, I've always seen the arts as more valid than most things. I'm sure I would have felt far more at ease were I able to say "Why yes, I'm doing a show right now, as we speak. Come see me in all my brilliance!", but I couldn't. And somehow I was afraid to mention that I'm in the process of co-developing a work that's so in the initial stages that I'm not ready to articulate it even here in this blog.

Even more intimidating was the hyper-awareness of exactly how young I am (wow, that's a rarity for me to see it that way, isn't it?) This isn't the first time I've dated someone older than me, as you know, and in fact this age difference (18 years) is far less than that of my previous older guy experience. I don't know why this time around I'm more skittish about it. Perhaps its because of having previously been through it, and knowing that in that particular situation, the gap caused many more problems than I was willing to admit. I don't think that would be the case this time around, and so many things are different (myself included)...but I am aware of it. And I suppose that made me eager to somehow prove myself worthy of hanging with the big kids, you know?

I survived the evening. I have no idea how I came across; Doc Harley's response was "What are you talking about? You came across fine. The food was good wasn't it?" Umm, I'm not sure, because I was too nervous to really taste anything. How freaking silly is that? I'm an adult, dating and still getting to know another adult. That's it. No pressure, no expectations, just enjoyment of the moment. I somehow forgot that, until we got back to his place and I curled up in his arms and remembered which moments were truly important.

I blame it on my mother, who being French has 15 heart attacks per second when it comes to manners and such. Not that my mother is formal, by any stretch of the imagination, we just have a certain way of doing things and a certain way of behaving in certain situations and well damn if that doesn't sound uptight now that I'm typing it out.

I am a very silly and sometimes quite French monkey. I guess I wore the wrong hat.

What's more important is that I'm having such an incredible time with this man who makes me smile all the time and who is the only person who has ever been able to wake me up laughing in the morning.

I'm beginning to like drinking coffee in the shower. I think its a metaphor.