The path leading to the door of my tiny apartment is winding and scattered with crumbling cement, but I have long stopped attaching symbolism to everything I encounter. If the path were straight and red-carpeted, it still wouldn’t make me married.

The path leading to the door of my tiny apartment is winding and scattered with crumbling cement, but I have long stopped attaching symbolism to everything I encounter. If the path were straight and red-carpeted, it still wouldn’t make me married.

I let myself in and dump down my stuff. School’s over in two weeks, and I have to get my report cards done pronto. Especially since I’m not sure if I’ll be available tomorrow night.

Leora had a wonderful year in tenth grade, I type slowly, thinking as I write. Her passion and enthusiasm enhanced our class. Her... I search for the word… decorum improved over the year. With her unique strengths, I am confident she will continue to make beautiful progress. I bite my lip. Constructive criticism is… constructive, right? I read it over, trying to decide if there’s enough warm-fuzzy in it for the end of the year.

Zippy had a wonderful year in tenth grade, I go on. She is a meticulous student, and—

My phone buzzes. “Hi, Shaina, it’s Chavi Snow.”

“Hi, Mrs. Snow,” I say cheerfully. When you talk to a shadchan you need to sound upbeat and cheerful. It’s the equivalent of putting on makeup every time you go to the grocery store.

“How are you?” she stalls.

“Baruch Hashem,” I say, still cheerful, but her tone has given it away.

“Good… baruch Hashem. So, about the shidduch… He doesn’t think— I mean, he said no.”

“Thank you for getting back to me,” I say graciously. The next part is a little harder, but I force myself to ask, “Did he give you any feedback? I thought the date went well.”

“No, not really.” She can’t wait to get off the phone.

“Well, thank you so much for working on it,” I say warmly. That part is not so hard, because I mean it.

“Oh, no problem. My pleasure. Besuros tovos.”

As soon as I hang up, I look up Mrs. Snow’s address and e-mail the gift store with my usual order. I allow myself exactly two minutes to agonize, theorize, ruminate, fixate and otherwise obsess. It had started off so well, but then in the middle something went wrong. We were talking — was it about my teaching? — and then we had kind of lost the momentum. He shut down. What had I said wrong? I rack my brains. Maybe I spoke too much. Or too little. Or maybe...

I turn resolutely back to my report cards. Productivity is the best therapy.

A sudden thought strikes me. Imagine if I got a report card after every date. Shaina behaved beautifully on her date. She participated in the conversation with grace and wit and was warm and friendly. We look forward to meeting Shaina again.

I giggle. Apparently I think very highly of myself, though nobody seems to think the same. Though Shaina participated in the conversation — what could it have been? — her significant flaws in several areas disqualify her as a marriage candidate. Shaina has many strengths, which she can use to improve herself.

I flinch, even though it’s only me talking in my head. Getting a report card after every date wouldn’t be fun.

But at least I would know why a young man I met just said no.

Murphy’s Law of Baggage Handling states that the chances of your phone ringing are directly proportional to the quantity of stuff you are holding.

As an example, witness Shaina Spiegel leaving school on Monday afternoon with laptop, handbag, teacher’s bag, and siddur in one hand. In the crook of my other arm are the groceries I had picked up on my way in this morning. I am keeping a stack of unmarked tests in place with my chin. I manage to hook my keys onto my pinky finger and am about to begin maneuvering myself and my stuff into the car when my phone buzzes. It’s poking out of the outside pocket of my handbag, so I can see an unfamiliar number on the screen.

I could ignore it. I want to ignore it. I want to call back in five minutes, from the road, when I’m all sorted out. It’s probably a student’s mother, or a telemarketer, or a wrong number. But what if it isn’t? What if it’s a shadchan calling about my dream guy, and he already gave a yes? We could go out, let’s see, in three days, on Thursday...

Oh, Shaina, please! Just get in the car.

Why is this crazier than blow-drying my hair every single time I go to the porch to see if it’s raining?

I drop all my stuff, yank out the phone, and swipe right.

“Hello!” I gasp.

“Hello, is this Mrs. Spiegel?”

My heart plummets. “No!” I say loudly. “I mean, um, yes, it’s, um...”

She sounds flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m trying to reach Shaina Spiegel…?”

I gather my wits. “Yes,” I say firmly. “This is Shaina Spiegel. Who am I speaking with, please?”

“My name is, uh... Leah Cohen. I was given your name as a reference for Mali Kaplan. Is now a good time for you?”

I survey the mess on the asphalt. But I don’t want her to think I’m avoiding her. “Absolutely,” I chirp in a pleasant, reassuring tone. “What would you like to know?”

It’s a familiar routine, comfortable as an old friend. Mrs. Cohen, if that’s her real name, covers the usual bases; family, schooling, career, without any bumps, and segues smoothly into looks, style, and personality. And then there’s this tiny pause and she goes, “Can you tell me why she’s not married yet?”

I hate this question. I hate it because it doesn’t have an answer, and in the 0.001 percent of cases that it does, I don’t want to be the one to say it.

I say warmly, “I don’t know, but she’s such a wonderful girl. And from what you’ve told me about your son, I can tell he’s special. I’m sure if you met Mali you’d see right away why everyone likes her so much.”

After I hang up I gather up my stuff and sit down in the driver’s seat and don’t do anything. I don’t start the car or turn on the music or even look out the window. I sit at the wheel and think. Is there a reason I am not married yet?

Is there anything, anything, in my control, that I could change, that would increase my chances of getting married?

I don’t know why Mali is not married. But there are some singles that I do know… who do have circumstances working against them.

Is there anything in my circumstances that is working against me?

Because if there is, the time to face it is now.

When I step outside the next morning, I’m shocked to find myself in a construction zone. There are bulldozers and tractors and all sorts of trucks and equipment I can’t name lined up in front of the building. The street is closed to through traffic, which actually makes a nice change, considering that I can get my car down the street at a normal pace. But all those trucks — I’m not sure it’s worth the trade.

There’s bright yellow construction tape roping off the area beginning not five feet away from my door. It encircles the apartment building next door, which is identical to the one I live in. I’m late for school and I’m still preoccupied with my latest, um, learning experience, so I don’t stop to investigate.

I don’t get home until after 4 p.m. The building next door is gone.

I’m staring openmouthed at the pile of rubble when I get a text from Mali. Her date was at 10 this morning and it’s 4:15 now. She probably hasn’t even taken her shoes off. “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to another round of your favorite game show... Last Man on Earth!!!”

“Wild applause,” I text back. The small action wakes me up, and I let myself into the apartment and collapse on the couch. Then I call her. “So?” I ask.

“I haven’t even had time to take my shoes off!” she protests.

“You texted me,” I point out. When no response is forthcoming I prompt her. “So?”

“So what?” she grouses.

“So, would you marry him if he was the last man on earth?”

Quiet.

“That’s what it comes down to? At my age, if he likes me, I should marry him?”

“I didn’t say that,” I defend myself.

“But you thought it.”

“No, I didn’t. Are you a mind reader?”

“I could use a crystal ball!”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“What’s the matter with him? What’s the matter with him? What’s the matter with you? Once we’re on the topic, what’s the matter with me? I’m single and I’m dating someone and I’m conflicted so I have to defend myself by explaining what’s the matter with him? What about liking him, respecting him, enjoying his company, wanting to marry him? Oh, all that stuff is for 19-year-olds, but you, Mali, you’re an older single”—she spat it out like it was a bad word—“so you should just marry whoever comes along regardless of what’s the matter with him!”

I lower the volume on my phone.

“And furthermore, the truth is that I don’t know what’s the matter with him. Why isn’t he married a hundred times over by now? But I can’t get any information about him because when I try to ask people they tell me not to look for problems and not to self-sabotage and not to be picky and not to have unrealistic expectations! Like it’s unrealistic to want to know about the person you’re considering committing your entire life to!”

Heavy breathing.

“But Mali,” I say, trying hard to sound reasonable, “you’re also not married and nothing’s wrong with you, so—”

“So it’s a perfect shidduch, huh? Two singles, same age bracket, opposite genders… what else could you want?!”

A deep, steadying breath. “Sorry,” she mutters. I hear muffled voices in the background. Mali still lives with her parents. She’s adamant that she’ll live with them until she gets married. “Listen, my parents want to talk to me. I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Okay...” I hesitate, but what can I say? “Good luck.” She clicks off but her words reverberate in my head, and my dreams that night feature an endless, blood-red aisle.

By Thursday I can’t avoid it anymore.

The house next door has been pulverized and in its stead there’s a gaping cavern. Trucks busily cart away rubble. The sight disturbs me. I start turning my head away when I come and go, wishing I could also ignore the insistent question that has started to consume me. It haunts me as I go through the day’s motions and follows me into my dreams of rings with the diamonds missing.

Gosh, with dreams like this, who needs a therapist?

On Wednesday, a new slew of trucks arrives, some carrying mounds of raw material. Little boys stand as close to the yellow tape as they can get, completely absorbed in the action. Suddenly I find myself intensely curious. What kind of trucks are those? What are they carrying? What are they going to build? The roar of engines and machines drowns out the buzzing in my brain. But there’s only so long it can distract me.

Is there something I could change that would increase my chances of getting married?

And then I suddenly know the answer, and I wish I didn’t. Because it isn’t only an answer. It’s a million more questions.

It’s dark outside and the machines are stiff and silent, resembling silhouettes of sleeping monsters in the night sky. I stare at them, but I don’t see a thing.

The truth is that for years I’d only considered someone learning full-time, though by now I’m open to other scenarios. But you have to live on something. And I am a teacher. And everyone knows that around here, teachers’ salaries are notoriously low, when they get paid at all.

True, I’ve been saving. But I moved here for this job, and I live on my own, and I’m supporting myself. Could I support a family with this income?

With razor-sharp clarity, my last, failed date floats in front of my face. It had been going well, and then something had changed: we had lost the momentum. I hadn’t let myself agonize too long on the why, what, when — but now I know. It was when he asked if I enjoy teaching, and my face had lit up a thousand watts, and I said, “I really, really love it. I can’t imagine ever doing anything else.”

I drop my head in my hands, reeling from the thought. If I left teaching, found a “real job,” would I be a better shidduch candidate?

The memories wash over me faster than I can process them. All the times I gave information about my friends, all the questions about the euphemistic “career,” all the dates that never materialized for reasons I never understood. Could it be?

Something inside me rebels. Rivi is a teacher, and she’s married, Chevy is a teacher, and she’s married; as a matter of fact, most teachers are married! But a quick mental inventory of my friends who teach forces me to admit — their financial situations are better than mine.

Shaina, you were looking for a boy who wouldn’t work, but your career choice didn’t make such a lifestyle viable.

My throat catches. Is everything about money? Life is short. It has to be meaningful. I want to spend my time on something important! If I had a husband and family — that would be meaningful and important. But right now I don’t, and my teaching gives my life meaning and importance.

Shall I give up teaching, on that chance?

Can I give up a chance, for teaching?

I stare numbly at the empty space next door, wishing I had never thought of this.

The five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I move through them speedily, one by one. I don’t have the luxury to let this take time. I have to make a decision and get to acceptance, fast.

“Aren’t you taking this a little too far?” asks Mali. “I mean, mourning? Who died?”

I’m the one who died. It’s the death of a dream.

By next week I am out of Denial and in Bargaining. Please, G-d, if You let me stay in teaching I’ll live on bread and water and never complain. If You send me my bashert I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work. I’m staring at nothing and formulating another if when Zach Kleinfeld calls.

“Shaina Spiegel?”

My voice sounds far away to my own ears. “Speaking.”

“Zach Kleinfeld. I’m a friend of your father’s, he gave me your cell. Is this a good time?”

I swallow the words it’s the worst time of my life and say, kind of flatly, “Yes.”

“The reason I’m calling is because we’re opening a branch of our company in your area and I’d like to offer you a position. Is it something you’d consider?” When I don’t answer immediately he adds, “We create educational and curricular materials that we sell to schools and teachers and other people in related fields.”

Blankly I say, “Mr. Kleinfeld, I have no experience in a corporate environment.”

“I’m aware of that. But when we open a new branch, the first thing we look for is staff we can rely on and trust. I’ve done some research and your profile seems to suit our requirements. And of course your experience in education is an advantage.”

I close my eyes, awash in a warm, forgotten feeling of being wanted, valued, needed. Even if it’s only by some random businessman who doesn’t really know me, and is probably making a big mistake.

He gives me some more details and waits expectantly. Numbly I say, “Thank you. When do you need an answer for?”

“Well... by Thursday the latest.” Thursday... the last day of school.

The salary is more than double my current teacher’s salary. The location is close by. The hours are ideal. Yeah, everything about this job is ideal. Perfect. Too good to be true.

I don’t know what to think. Rejoice in my miraculous salvation? Resolve to stand strong in the face of this bitter test? Will Thursday be my last day of school... forever?

Mali calls me a hundred times but I don’t pick up the phone.

The next day, the sun is shining brightly, and I’ve gotten so used to the trucks that they don’t even bother me when I leave for work. I guess you can get used to anything. I find it soothing to walk, one step in front of another. When Mali calls, I answer the phone with a grudging swipe.

“So! Princess Shaina decided to answer the phone,” she purrs. I wince. She gets like this sometimes.

“What’s doing?” I fling back feebly.

Mali lets this piece of scintillating conversation pass without comment. “I’m not going out with him anymore,” she informs me.

I’m disoriented by everything that’s going on in my head. “Who?”

“Whom,” she corrects sweetly. “I’m not going out with him anymore — Mr. Matter-with-Him.”

Suddenly I’m outraged. “Yeah? And why not?”

Now she’s evasive. “Whatever. He wasn’t for me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am sure.”

“You found out something terrible?”

“Um, no, but he... he... He just isn’t for me.”

“Is he an ax murderer? A pickpocket? No, wait, he survived abduction by aliens and now he’s the Grand World Leader of the Alien Abduction Survivors Support Group. Fine, I get it.”

“Shaina!”

She had an opportunity and she wasn’t willing to make it work. “What?”

“I am not going out with him anymore because he doesn’t think we’re compatible and doesn’t want to go out with me.”

Oh, whoops. Sorry.

“I’m surprised at your reaction. You’re usually very supportive.”

Yeah, well, even we paragons have bad days.

Her voice is weary. “Well, that’s it. I gave it my all, with all my misgivings and fears. And now it’s over. Read my lips: I’m not doing this ever again.”

“I gave information about you last week,” I blurt, desperate to fix everything. “A Mrs. Cohen — her son sounded amazing!”

“Yeah,” says Mali, with disinterest. “They called Rivi also.”

“Great!” I babble. “See, look, you never know what—”

“Not great,” she interrupts. “I’m done. I invested myself, I opened up, I let myself hope, I let myself want. Now it’s over. It always ends, one way or another, and now I am done, done, done.”

I cringe at her tone. “Don’t say that!”

“I am saying that,” she asserts. “I’m saying it to you, and I’m saying it to my parents. And,” she pauses heavily, “I said it to the shadchan who called this afternoon with a yes from the Cohen boy.”

I need to talk to someone. I know I do. As crazy as it sounds, I desperately want to talk to my husband about this. Wherever he is, whoever he is — if there was ever a time when I needed support and understanding and love and acceptance, it’s now. Of course, if I had a husband, the issue wouldn’t be relevant… What a crazy way to think.

This is so not my type, but desperate people do desperate things. I’m in the teachers’ room alone with Chaya Klugman; she’s the eighth grade mechaneches, and everyone loves to talk to her. I have a free period, and she’s just sitting there marking papers, and suddenly the whole thing comes spilling out. How I love teaching, and how I love my students, and how much I grow from it, and how focused it keeps me, and how it gives me a purpose and gives my life meaning. And how badly I want to get married, and how if I knew that leaving teaching would help, I would do it in a heartbeat, but I don’t know. And my deepest fear: what if I leave teaching and I still don’t get married? I won’t have anything then, just an empty, meaningless life.

Chaya listens carefully. She’s going to give me the bitachon speech, I just know it. She’s going to say, Shaina, you need to trust that Hashem will take care of you! She’s going to say, of course you’ll get married one day! I so, so badly want her to promise me that.

But even if she did, I wouldn’t believe her. How can she promise me that? How can anyone?

When I’m done talking, Chaya’s eyebrows are raised. “So,” she says. “Only teachers have meaningful lives? Everyone else is just wasting their time?”

What? “I didn’t say—”

“Can your life be meaningful even if you’re not married and not teaching?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m just putting it in perspective. Let’s not blow the teaching thing out of proportion.” She’s quiet for a minute, then adds, “It’s a universal imperative, to make life meaningful. You don’t get it just by getting married or being a teacher.”

“All these years…” I stammer, waving my hand vaguely.

“Don’t think about the past now. Think about the future.”

“So... I should leave teaching?” I try to keep my voice steady, casual.

“You have to own this decision, Shaina.” She watches me for a minute and adds unexpectedly, “You are a strong person.”

I don’t want to be strong, I feel like screaming. I don’t want to be strong! I want to be married!

When I leave school I’m still torn, but something in my heart has eased in some indefinable way.

By Tuesday afternoon I simply can’t think anymore. Desperate to get out of my own head, I call Mali. Maybe she’ll come shopping with me. Or walking. Or something. Or anything!

“Sorry,” Mali says when I reach her. “I would love to. But I’m busy tonight.”

I’m relieved to hear that she sounds like her regular perky self. “Date?” I ask. “Whatsisname again — Cohen?”

“No,” she says scornfully. “I told you already, I’m done with that! I have an appointment with a realtor to see some apartments.”

“Apartments,” I repeat blankly.

“Yes, apartments,” she confirms cheerfully. “I hope I can find something near you. And Shiffy gave me the name of her decorator. This is going to be so much fun!”

When I hang up I feel sick. Mali has chosen her way.

I have just two more days to choose mine.

I go for a long, long drive, alone. I don’t get back until midnight. As I let myself into the apartment I notice that something has changed next door: while I was out, the foundation was poured. The street smells of drying cement.

They must have had some leftover cement. The walkway leading to my apartment has been repaved.

Thursday is Decision Day. I thought I would do it when I got home from school, but I can’t eat breakfast like this, and I decide I’ll just get it over with. I daven slowly: Please, God, I just want to serve You, please guide me to do the right thing and to serve You the way You want me to.

I dial Mr. Kleinfeld’s number carefully. I hope to get his voicemail, but his secretary puts me through right away.

“Mr. Kleinfeld? It’s Shaina — Shaina Spiegel.”

“Oh, Miss Spiegel.” Mr. Kleinfeld sounds pleased. “What’s the verdict?”

I try to keep my voice steady. “Well, Mr. Kleinfeld, I thought a lot about your generous proposal.” I can hear my voice becoming more animated, the teacher in me kicking in. “I want you to know how much I appreciate the confidence you have in me, never having worked in a corporate environment before, and all that.”

“Yes, well, you come highly recommended,” he says, a bit impatiently. “And your educational experience is a big advantage in this business.”

I aim for confidence and surety, but my voice comes out higher than I intend as I announce, “Mr. Kleinfeld, it will be my pleasure to accept your offer.” A breath I didn’t know I was holding whooshes out, and I feel suddenly free, giddy with relief and, strangely, joy.

Mr. Kleinfeld is effusive. “We’re excited to have you on board, Miss Spiegel. Mazel tov on your new job!” On any other day the term would knock me over, but today I am strong, and it even feels appropriate. Behold, I have been faced with blessing and curse, and I have chosen life.

It’s my last day of school, and I have a class to teach in twenty minutes. On my way out my door I pause at the mirror. I stare at my reflection. Shaina is a brave girl who made a courageous choice. She remained committed to her highest values. With strengths like hers, she will go far in life.

Then I open the door, to that once crumbly, rocky path that bends and turns. I close the door firmly behind me without looking back and, head held high, I walk down my new path toward the rest of my life.

(Originally featured in Calligraphy, Succos 5776)