In search of Mr. ?

In search of Mr. ?

I am 3′ years old. A single gal living in Tel Aviv. I have recently moved into a new apartment, and I love it. I got the key directly after the landlord placed down brand new floors and a new kitchen and bathroom.

I am very conveniently situated, half a block away from the beach. I love the beach and, with the beautiful Israeli weather, I go quite often. Here we are in the dead of winter, and this past weekend I actually took a blanket and a book (which I didn’t really get to read) and lay on the sand in my bikini to catch some vitamin E. I know it’s bad for you to sun bathe, but I swear I feel better and healthier after I absorb some sun.

Rachel Greenfest, regretfully, considers herself a professional blind dater.

I am a five-minute walk from work, two minutes from my Pilates studio, and three of my best friends live within a seven-minute walk. We meet often at our local caf? on Bugrashov Street.

I have been on the dating scene here for quite some time now. You can’t accuse me of hiding away in my great apartment and hoping that my Jewish Prince Charming will miraculously land on my doorstep.

No way. I go out — looking, hunting. I have been on a million blind dates. (Regretfully, I consider myself a professional blind-dater. It wasn’t exactly a title I sought.) I have been out with all the friends of my friends of my friends. If a fix-up is offered, I am almost always there. My romantic/optimistic soul can’t help but think that the path to my bashert was meant to wind through the cousin of my hairdresser, her son, or his best friend.

I usually prefer taking the number as opposed to giving out mine.

I am at a point where I would even be willing to lower my standards. When asked what I’m looking for, I reply, "Single, Jewish, straight guy with a pulse."

But two weeks ago, while sitting in a local Tel Aviv caf? with my best girlfriend, I saw Assaf. He caught my eye as soon as we sat down. He was wearing the worst clothing combo: Orange sarwalls — a very thin cloth pant that looks a little bit like a tracksuit made out of rags — a torn shirt, and Teva sandals with socks. Not my style at all, but still there was definitely something about him.

I didn’t quite have the nerve to approach him face-to-face, but as soon as he left, I sat myself down at his table where one of his friends had stayed behind. Apparently this other guy had met Assaf that day, but he was very sweet and promised he’d try to help. I left him my number (there was no other option this time) in the hopes that the message would somehow get to Assaf.

My phone rang that evening. It was Assaf. He sounded so, so nice. He worked with handicapped children. I melted. We set a date for Sunday evening.

We went out to Caf? Bialik on Allenby Road, which is a caf? by day and a bar by night, and had a couple of beers. Conversation flowed. It was great.

Four hours later, which by any standard is a very long date, he walked me home. A passionate kiss downstairs and we parted with "goodnight." A few days later we went out on date number two — already quite an event for me. Statistically most men last one date, and then I don’t see any point in seeing them. I try not to judge too harshly and to keep an open and forgiving mind, but if you shut your apartment door and can’t remember anything about a guy, it pretty much means he was so pareve that there really is no reason to waste another minute on him.

Date two was also great. At some point he said that his head was cold (he had those really short army cuts) and asked if he could borrow my hat. I said sure, and he spent half the date wearing a knitted pink and purple cap. Amazing.

I told him that only a secure man could sit in public wearing a pink hat. He looked me straight in the eye and said: "I am extremely secure in my masculinity." I melted again.

But it has been four days since our date, and he still has not called.

I can’t call him because up until now I have taken all the initiative. I even called after date number one.

Why can’t people just say, "I’m just not into you?" That is the impression I’m getting. I liked him. Perhaps his serious flaw is that he doesn’t like me — and between you and me that is a huge flaw.

Life goes on, and I cling to my positive, romantic and optimistic outlook. Maybe I’ll meet Mr. Right tomorrow.

Rachel Greenfest works and lives in Tel Aviv. Her father, Ira Greenfest, lives in Teaneck — and hopes Mr. Right comes along today.

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