Chemicalize Me

In the course of my singlehood, I’ve taken the time to carefully bend, mold, and craft my ideal man.  There has been a new series of stipulations and benchmarks added to my wish list based on all the delights and downs of my previous relationships.  They range from education level, professional trajectory, physical characteristics, family dynamics, and so on.  And though none of these conditions are a deal breaker, per se, I clearly know what I want.  

To much of my girlfriends’ (white) jealousy, who are married and settled, I am that single girl, living in her own apartment in the middle of the city, employed with a cool gig, and absolutely carefree.  Moreover, as far as my girlfriends in America are concerned, they remind me how lucky I am for supposedly living in one big Kosher candy store, and I am effectively the Yiddisha sweet-tooth fairy.  

So I’ve begun shuffling the deck in search of my Ace, date after date.  Since matchmaking is a national sport in Israel, my friends have been champions in setting me up with their super decent male buddies – the most recent arrangement taking place this week at Par Derriere.  This is a poetic wine bar, where the ambiance is of drunken love tucked away somewhere between a chateau in Tuscony and an alley in SOHO.

Unfortunately, Par Derriere’s drunken love wasn’t intoxicating enough.  While my date checked off so many of my demands, the only chemistry from that night was the one fermenting in my glass of wine.  But surly behind all disappointments there are lessons, and in this case, I’m considering voiding my terms and conditions, and substituting them with a chemical formula that sets this lab on fire. After all, what good is that “girl in the city” without “Sex” in the title???