My dating life is a wreck. My job’s a failure. And now there's a high school reunion

“Let me forever go in search of myself; never for a moment think I have found myself… I had ceased to have faith in myself. I thought I was grown up and become what I intended to be, but it is the earliest spring with me.”

— Journal of Henry David Thoreau, 1851

I know, I know. Not all motorcycle riders are makpid not to weave through traffic; that does show middos. I agree. I totally agree! And middos are everything! Yes, Mrs. Schwartzkopf! Agreed!

I sagged against the wall in the teacher’s room, phone dangling in my hand.

“I need to go, I’m supposed to be in class,” I broke in. That was true; I was lucky the secretary had been out when my cell rang during the school assembly and I’d escaped to her empty office to talk, especially since my phone, as of yesterday morning, only worked on speaker mode. “But I don’t— ”

“And yichus, did I mention Zelli’s uncle is the man in the streimel ad on the 13^th Avenue billboard—”

I scrolled through the photos he’d posted of his commune with elephants in Kanchanaburi, Thailand, making a mental note to delete the search history of this Zelli Geltfresser from Mrs. Sternberg’s computer. “Look, I appreciate—”

The computer pinged with another email. Last night, Ratzy Stern set up a mass email list for my high school classmates — I guess the reunion evite had made her nostalgic — and my inbox had been pinging non-stop since with reply-alls from girls I hadn’t seen in over a decade.

“And his paternal aunt created the nish-nosh salad recipe, except she uses animal crackers now, his sister has her own YouTube channel— ”

The click of heels attacking the corridor distracted me and I quickly locked the door, ignoring the secretary’s startled face. “Incredible!” I’d go through the emails later, see the reunion hock. Uch. “But I don’t think—”

“Let me tell you about the tremendous kiddush Hashem he once made, to his Italian parole officer—”

“Incredible,” I repeated, taking a deep breath. “But I just. Don’t. Think.” I exhaled. An email from Goldy Stern pinged. “He’s for—” I re-ran her sentence in my head. “Wait, his Italian what?”

“Do you want to get married or not?” Schwartzkopf interrupted. The pit of anxiety in my stomach spread its tentacles upward, tightening around my chest.

When did my life devolve to the point that in order to have a shadchan conversation, I needed an empty room, a cell phone, and a paper bag?

“Almost done!” I mouthed at Mrs. Sternberg, whose face pressed against the glass. Her fist was poised to strike again. “I hear you, just this particular suggestion –”

I heard fumbling at the door, Mrs. Sternberg surreptitiously trying to break the lock. I made elaborate I’m on the phone hand motions. She hesitated. My co-teacher Chani Rand peered behind her, mouth agape.

“Fabulous, I’ll set the date for tomorrow! Seven pm okay?”

I collapsed at the desk.

Mrs. Sternberg’s computer emitted another ping; an email from Chaykie Rand, former co-editor of our senior yearbook along with yours truly, now a hotshot in speech therapy, wife of a lawyer, mom of five kids.

The distance between my life and hers suddenly seemed huge.

Frenzied knocking, more fumbling at the door — someone must’ve had the key — and the door crashed open as the principal marched in, face slightly green, followed by Mrs. Sternberg, Chani, and four other concerned-looking teachers. “Miss Wisser,” she hissed. “Rachel! The intercom—”