There’s a certain comfort, almost, in the familiarity of the ritual, of going through the same procedure again and again and again. It’s the same kind of comfort as being home, where you have the security of knowing all the rules, and you don’t have to figure everything out as you go along. It’s not exciting anymore, or nerve-wracking; it’s just something I do. I learn, I daven, I sleep, I eat, and I date. Move along, nothing to see here. Just another day at the office.

(Of course I have hobbies. I’m writing this, for one thing.)

I’m in this weird space somewhere between wanting desperately to be done with this and just not caring anymore. So I’ll go out again: another girl, another five, another 20. Another year or two or five of driving up the Turnpike to New York, as the old song goes. Whatever.

“Give her a chance,” my mother says. I always do, Ma, you know that.

(Okay, almost always.)

I’ll get engaged eventually, I’m sure. Most people do, at least on my side of the mechitzah. At least I’m not a girl. Look at the bright side!

I haven’t really been at this as long as it sounds. (No, I’m not going to say how long.) But the grind, the groove, the monotony — well, it just doesn’t take that long to set in. If you’ve been in BMG more than a year or two, if your friends are almost all married with a kid or two, good luck keeping that nose to the grindstone. Two-thirds of my single friends have left yeshivah already.

(I have three single friends. The math is easy.)

I sound a little bitter. I’m really not. And don’t worry, I don’t sound like this on dates (or in the rest of my life). I actually enjoy life. Just gotta vent a little once in a while.

I wonder how this date will go down. Three hours of stilted silences? Definitely happened before. Good conversation, but glaring personality problems? Been there, done that. An awkward situation to laugh and cringe about for the next few years? Oh, well, at least I’ll walk away with the story.

Maybe it’ll be a great date! I’ve had some of those, too. Nothing like cruising over that super-wide bridge on the Parkway at 80 (90?) miles an hour after a great date, on top of the world.

Worst-case scenario isn’t even a terrible date. A bad enough date means it’s over within ten minutes of dropping her off, and I can hopefully forget about the whole thing by the time I get to first seder tomorrow.

The actual worst part of shidduchim? Saying no — for good reason — to something that had real potential, usually after hours of agonized weighing. Nothing in shidduchim hurts as much as ending a good try. (Yes, I’ve been dumped. Not as bad.)

Time to bentsh and get going, I suppose. Gotta be at her door in half an hour.

Hey, at least the pizza was good.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 946)