Shabbos for a Single Girl

You are having a bad day. It is Erev Shabbos, you were up all night cooking for your 13 guests and you grabbed a nap between 5:30 and 6:30 am before rushing off to work, where your desk is piled high and you know, you just know it is going to be one of those days. The phone has been ringing off the hook, the copy machine is broken, and you have just spilled your untouched coffee all over your boss’ letters, which you will now have to reprint. You dab at your skirt, which is rapidly absorbing hot liquid and scalding your legs, when the phone rings again. It is your friend, who is bored at work, and as she prattles on endlessly your mind is screaming (not only from your newly acquired burn) about the injustice of it all and your work is piling up. You are attempting to remember the last time you went to the bathroom, ate, or drank something and desperately trying not to reach through the phone to your friend, who, oblivious to your plight, is talking about how she just watched Grey’s Anatomy on her computer at work because she was soooo bored. But then she gets your attention. Then she makes you not care about getting first degree burns on your legs or the fact that you have not watched TV in over a month. “So I heard Boy is in town this weekend,” she says casually. “I think he was planning on stopping by your place just before dessert, he was going to come with the Guys.”
Boy!!!!!
Boy as in Boy you walked home with from a dinner two months ago and he said he would call you. Boy who never called. Boy who is clearly your bashert and you have been languishing and obsessing about. Boy who you thought forgot you. And now, suddenly, your day is better.
Suddenly, work does not matter. Nothing else matters. Forget the copier and the phone. Forget the letters. Forget going to the bathroom. Because Boy is in town, and he is coming for dessert with the Guys. Which means...you need more dessert. You need dessert so amazing Boy will be sorry he never called you. You need dessert so amazing, Boy will ask you to marry him as soon as he tastes your creation. You need to leave the office. A quick glance at the clock reminds you that you have two hours left of work, and 5 hours until Shabbos. Your friend is still on the phone. You hang up on her abruptly as your boss walks in and thrust the newly printed letters in his face, silently begging him to hurry as he slowly scrawls his signature on every page. The second he finishes you throw the stack at your coworker and beseech her to stuff the envelopes for you so you can finish up. The clock is ticking.

You have an hour until work is over, and you are panting from the exhaustion of working at warp speed. You convince your boss you need to leave, show him your clean desktop (after shoving half the files in your drawer). You run the ten blocks to the nail salon and spend a precious twenty minutes ensuring your nails and eyebrows look just as amazing as your dessert will. You run into the subway station, waiting for the train, tapping your foot impatiently and trying not to move away from the man sleeping on the bench too obviously. There is suddenly an unintelligible announcement met with groans, and you don’t have time to decipher what it means. You run out of the subway, and wave at the fleet of cabs who drive by. They all ignore you. You run to the next corner and hop up and down, your feet already aching from those super-cute one size to small loafers you had to have, arms flailing as you try not to look too desperate. You drop your arms to consider how much time it will take if you run to the bus, and then…a car screeches to a halt beside you. You speed uptown (only getting stuck in two traffic jams) while listening to your cab driver complain about the Henry Hudson Parkway, his family, and his life as cabbie. Four hours to go.

A quick glance through your cookbooks and you are off to the store, still running but now you had the good sense to put on sneakers. You toss things in your cart, trying not to be too rude as you rush by friends and neighbors who all need to say hi to you, ask you how you make your cauliflower, or want to come for dinner. And then you are sifting and mixing and baking and building cookie structures, and then you remember…what are you going to wear?! You fling open your closet doors, praying that your blue dress, the one that makes you look a size 4 (okay, a size 8. Well, a 10) is hanging up and clean. You heave practically the entire contents of your closet onto your bed as you frantically search for it…and no. Your dress is not there. Your dress is nowhere to be found. Because, you suddenly remember, your magic blue dress is still at the cleaners. The cleaners downtown. Despair reigns. But then, a ray of light shines in from the window and hits…the Macy’s bag in the back. The Macy’s bag with the gorgeous pink sweater and brown skirt. You are saved! You yank off the tags and return to the kitchen to rescue your smoldering chocolate sauce. Three hours to go.

You are rearranging your furniture to accommodate your tables and chairs when the doorbell rings and your neighbors announce their Shabbos plans got cancelled, and can they come for dinner? All three of them, plus their two friends? You re-rearrange the furniture, run all over the building looking for chairs, when you shriek and wonder…DO YOU HAVE ENOUGH FOOD? You sprint to the party store to get more paper goods, then back to the supermarket so you can make more chicken and couscous. And maybe more cauliflower. And kugel. Two hours to go.

You are starting to sweat as you feverishly cook and race around your apartment, trying to clean up and make it look like you are a neat person. You take all the clothes off your bed and throw it into your closet. All the magazines and papers you dump into a basket. You sweep, plump pillows, run to the fourth floor to borrow a mop, take out the garbage and spray Febreze all over. You know there is no way you are going to watch today’s Oprah special, and going to shul is not looking too likely either. One hour to go.

You are trying to fit all the food in the oven while the chicken finishes cooking and you still need to make a salad. The paper goods are piled high, waiting to be put out. You trip over the open oven door and burn your ankle and you go to open the door. Your friend has arrived and you hurl the plates at her as you dash into the shower. It is the fastest shower you have ever taken, and then you are blow-drying and straightening and you have two chipped nails and your friend tries to fix them as you desperately apply makeup. Lots of makeup. 20 minutes to go.

Your brown suede heels are buried under the clothes that now cover the floor of your closet, and you throw all the clothes back out as you try to locate them. You stand up and your carefully straightened hair is sticking up like you were electrocuted. Ten minutes to go.
Your friend is shrieking about going to shul and you wave her off as you straighten with one hand and reapply lipstick with the other. Five minutes. Into the eighteen minutes, one of G-d’s greatest gifts to the female.

Shabbos. You look perfect. You light candles and speed-daven mincha as the sun sets, and then it is salad, ice the cake, and redo all the napkins. You finish just as the door opens and your house is filled with people. You drag out each course, encouraging zemiros, asking questions and telling story after story, giving Boy plenty of time to get there. Your guests are looking at you like you are insane as you request Menucha V’Simcha again, in “another tune.” You cannot put off dessert any longer. You pull your friend into the kitchen to help you bring out your four uber-elaborate, gourmet, things-you-only-see –in-Bon Apetit-magazine desserts to the table.
“Where is he?” You hiss.
“Who?”
“Boy!”
She shrugs. “He was in shul.”
Great. He did not get stuck in Long Island for Shabbos. He is actually in town, a few blocks away.
He is standing you up.

You slowly carry out the desserts amid much applause and you steal a glance at the clock. It is late. No wonder your guests want dessert. Your guests want to go home and sleep. You want to sleep. After bentching (which you dragged out insisting everyone sing out loud) you walk everyone to the door. Your apartment is in shambles. You change into a ratty T-shirt and sweatpants and you start to clean when there is a faint knock on the door. You yank on a skirt and fling open the door. There is Boy. Boy and his posse of “the Guys” and…a girl? A perfectly groomed actual size 4 girl who is…with them.
He grins. “Hey,” he says. “Are you still serving dessert?”
You look at him, with his disarming, cocky grin, at the Guys, and at the girl. You think of your three-tiered chocolate cake with chocolate ganache and cream filling, and of the mini lemon bundt cakes, and the trifle, and the apple pies with homemade caramel sauce, and all the leftovers in your fridge. You smile back. “Thanks so much for coming by,” you say. “I’m actually already cleaning up. Nice to see you.” You close the door. And lock it. Because you do not need him. You do not need Boy who didn’t call and showed up with an entourage. You do not need him to love you or your pie. You are jubilant. You are fabulous. You collapse onto the couch. You are exhausted.

with apologies to Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus