O... Jasmine!
By Ophira Eisenberg
When my friend Margot emailed, asking if I would come with her to a Jewish singles event at the Natural History Museum the following Saturday afternoon I leapt onto my keyboard and harnessing the power of my cable modem shot back OF COURSE!!!!!!. In all honesty there were probably a few more exclamation marks.
True, I was beyond excited at this prospect but not because I’m single. I’m far from it. As a matter of fact. Margot isn’t single either. We’ve both been married roughly the same amount of time, give or take a few months, depending on who you talk to. (My husband will claim longer) On top of not being single, Margot was also few months pregnant. The only requirement we met was we’re Jewish, but not the kind of Jew who can’t resist a homemade risotto crab cake on Passover.
The reason behind the invitation was Margot works as an up-and-coming matchmaker and wanted to do a little research as to what’s out there in highly profitable dating industry that is New York City. I, on the other hand, can’t pass up anything that involves a possible adventure, scheme, or going undercover. I have a James Bond fetish, am addicted to any spy-related action movie or 24-like television show, and I often ask myself, “What would Nancy Drew do?” Margot knows this and knows she can capitalize on it. This is one of the reasons she is a good matchmaker.
We talked on the phone and while Margot stressed that the whole thing would only take a couple of hours tops, I was obsessing over our covers. I told her we needed to decide upon new names. After all, my name is Ophira. It sticks out amongst the Rachels and Rebeccas and its very googlable, even if you have a last name to work with. I know, I’ve checked.
For the sake of ease, I decided to use my middle name, Jasmine. Yes, that’s my actual middle name and, no, my mother wasn’t obsessed with Aladdin and she isn’t a stripper. Rather, she loved the smell of the Jasmine flower when it bloomed in her garden. I know – totally adorable and sweet. Too bad no one else sees it that way. Margot agreed that she too should go under an assumed identity as she didn’t want to be outted on facebook, so she went with Sarah. Jasmine and Sarah. It almost sounded biblical.
On Saturday morning I started to get ready, or as I viewed it, began to get into character. Immediately, I was struck with a conflict. How dolled up should I get? Out of pure and utter laziness, I really didn’t want to go the whole nine yards. It just takes a lot of time and effort. I shouldn’t appear like I’m trying too hard. On the other hand, I wanted to come across like the real deal and I know that when I was a single Jewish girl, I always tried too hard. I decided to put hair in a ponytail and apply gentle makeup.
Even though I truly had no investment in the actually outcome of the afternoon, a strange insecurity gnawed at my ego. What if no one talks to me? What if I find out that if I were back on the market today, no one would want my goods? What if I’m just lucky my bloom was picked when it was because my petals are no longer shiny, soft, and lush? I applied a little more blush. And then changed to a tighter shirt. I started to beat myself up for not going to the gym that week while wondering if red lip gloss was too bold for a Saturday afternoon. Before I left the house, I realized I had forgot one very important thing: I was still wearing my wedding ring. Covering it with a Band-Aid or wearing gloves would just draw more attention to the issue. I had to take it off. As the ring slipped from my finger I suddenly felt dirty and guilty. Why was I taking this so seriously? How can I work as a spy when I can’t even handle the accessories?
I arrived at the Natural History Museum and found my friend “Sarah”. We approached a sea of young, powered, unattached Jews, a sea of well-dressed brunettes, and we were barked at by a loud Australian woman who placed us on a team. Our team consisted of two other women and one guy. Before we could say hello, we were told to “shut-up” so they could explain the event. We were given a list of ninety questions to answer while walking through the museum for an hour. The team with the most correct answers would win a prize. Fun.
The one poor guy on our team looked even less interested in being there than any of us. He was dressed smartly in a blazer but looked like he played bassoon in junior high band and never really made the transition from nerd to nerd chic. I introduced myself as “O…Jasmine!” already forgetting my cover and was met with odd looks. I would never be able to work with Michael on Burn Notice.
The consensus of my team – two unhappy girls, one depressed guy, my pregnant friend and me – was that we were all smart; smart enough to know that none of us would find new true love that afternoon so we should just try to win at the game.
We raced into ‘Gems and Minerals’. I tried to make the best of things by making conversation. “What do you do?” I asked. I had fantasized about fun responses to that question for myself like “stay at home mom” or “Dominatrix” in an effort raise some eyebrows at a Jewish singles event. They were both students. The question was shot back at me. I decided to go with “computer consultant”. I know from experience, it’s an instant conversation stopper. At best, you’ll get a, “Hey, can I ask you a question about my hard drive space?” It’s nothing compared to saying, “I do standup comedy.” As we all know, that just opens a floodgate of stupid questions, joke requests and funny anecdotes from their lives that I should use in my act. None of which in my years of doing comedy have I ever used in my act.
After forty-five minutes, the fun singles afternoon had disintegrated into personal sacrifice. The game was merely a test of how well we could read plaques and fill in blanks, and unless you jogged from dinosaur to big blue whale, there was no hope of finishing all the questions. Everyone felt defeated on every level and I felt awful for my teammates. For them, the afternoon once held promise. They probably left their apartment with hope thinking, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet the man or woman of my dreams today. Maybe I’ll be married a year from now or at least having sex next week or even later that evening.” But that was over now. Even for the one man on our team, who progressively became more interested in his blackberry, probably tweeting away about how much his life sucked.
When we returned to the “finish line” and handed our term papers in, I felt a similar sentiment of despair flow from the rest of the bunch. The event should have concluded with group therapy. I grabbed a drink from the cafeteria and the two girls followed me. One said, “I’m new to New York. Maybe we could all trade email addresses and at least keep in contact with each other?”
“Sure!” I responded enthusiastically and empathetically.
“Great!” she responded smiling. “What’s your name again?”
“O….ah…Jasmine.” Why could I not remember this? I am such an idiot.
“Okay. What’s your email?” she asked with her thumbs poised on her iphone.
My mind raced. All of my email accounts involve my real name.
“It’s jasmine z berg at gmail.com.”
She typed it in. I used “z” because that would make it unique enough so I could run home and open up that email account. But, as we all waved good-bye, I rethought. What exactly was my plan here? Was I really going to start a lifelong imposter relationship over email with this poor woman? I felt even worse knowing that now that woman would get home only to discover that not only had she wasted $40 on a lame singles event and not met a guy BUT she even got rejected by another woman!
Sarah was distressed by the whole event and also that no one pointed out her baby bump. “Great,” she said, “People just think I’m fat.” I left with little knowledge about how I would fare as a real player on the scene and only that I suck playing an assumed identity, even if it was just my own middle name. Maybe it was time to take an acting class to work on both sides of my query.
Ophira is a writer and comedian from New York.
Visit OphiraEisenberg.com.