“Dating Roundup” is an ambiguous term, since dating is the pursuit of romantic fulfillment, while Roundup is a toxic soul-destroying poison. Scratch that. “Dating roundup” is the perfect description for being single in 2022.
The fastest date I had ever been on lasted for five minutes, but it was just usurped by a two-minute date that was quicker than an Olympic ski race and also hurtled downhill. This was due to being promptly asked if I eventually plan to move back to the USA, which I confirmed, and the date was over since she wants to live in England. Nevertheless we carried on talking for another 30 minutes, got on well and decided to meet up and see “Spiderman: No Way Home” where our superhero gets lost in a multiverse of possibilities and faces old demons. Another good analogy for dating in 2022.
The fourth quarter of last year ended well, assuming it is OK to use the term “fourth quarter,” which makes my dating roundup sound like a shareholder stock report, but I might consider releasing shares or NFTs in my dating life, and then everyone can be a winner.
Last November, a date and I realized that we share the same birthday. With a 1 in 365 probability, this was bound to happen eventually. However, the “Birthday Paradox” explains that there is just a 1 in 23 chance of this coincidence, because if you gather 23 people in a room, there is a 50 percent possibility that two people will have the same birthday. Similarly, I have found that if you are Jewish and go on a disastrous date, there is a 92 percent chance you will see that person again at a Shabbat dinner within six weeks. Let us call it the “Jewish Dating Paradox.”
I have found that if you are Jewish and go on a disastrous date, there is a 92 percent chance you will see that person again at a Shabbat dinner within six weeks.
That evening was a hit. Discovering that we were both born on December 19th, and she said “we are both Sagittarians!” “Yes, but what is your moon and your rising sign?” I asked. “What is my what and my what?” I arranged the salt, pepper and a nearly-empty bowl of pickles around my dinner plate before rotating them in lecture-demonstration about astrological houses, our heavenly bodies, and how Talmudic rabbis visited astrologers (Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 156a). She looked bored, smiled graciously and reached across the table to take my last pickle.
A romance ensued—we spent December together and celebrated our birthday. It was a beautiful evening where we made fresh popcorn, lit the log fire, roasted marshmallows and watched a Holocaust film. We stayed awake until sunrise, but mainly because I’d had the brilliant idea of playing Claude Lanzmann’s 9-hour “Shoah” documentary.
The relationship ended by December 30th on the advice of her newly-hired astrologer, who coincidentally had given her a free ticket to his one-on-one New Year’s Eve moon-gazing retreat.
I quickly recovered and attended a New Year’s gathering where I gave an impromptu talk about the Kabbalistic approach to ghosts, what happens after we die, and why some souls get stuck between worlds. I have never understood why there is a mixed response when I use this as a conversation opener on most dates.
That night I met a beautiful and intelligent Jewish blonde from Argentina who was a PR agent and descended from a long line of Kabbalistic Rabbis. She stood at an impressive 6’2” tall. Her knowledge of the Zohar was impressive and I looked up to her. I mean, I am only 5’8” and I literally looked up to her.
The night ended at 3:15 a.m., I walked her home through the cold night, and she asked for my business card. The next evening she texted me to say “it’s lucky you didn’t kiss me last night. I have just tested positive for Covid.” One reason I didn’t kiss her was because I would have needed a stepladder.
There will be much to be grateful for this year, whatever happens. It’s written in the stars.
Marcus J Freed is an actor, writer, filmmaker and marketing consultant. www.marcusjfreed.com and on social @marcusjfreed.
