The Art of Playing “Normal”
I dragged myself to the car, a half-hearted schlep that said something about practicing integrity. My blood test indicated that I’m relatively all right.
In her typical no-frills fashion, she said, “Lose weight and get to the gym.” Thus, tightly encased in bell-bottomed leggings and an Honor the Blue tee-shirt with a (stylish) hacked-off collar, I attended for the third agonizing morning in a row.
What my doctor didn’t mention during the checkup were the elephants in every room in Israel: The war and the Iranian threat to annihilate us at some indiscriminate time in the nebulous near future. It is clear that the doctor is tense. I am tense. My husband is tense. We are all candidates for Oscars as we parent and laugh with our children and grandchildren, trying not to traumatize them any further than osmosis will permit. The summer temperatures hover at 34° centigrade (93°F) on most days, and treating the kiddies to a water activity or day on the beach is required.
My pantry is stocked with canned black beans and garbanzos and we have enough water for three days. Over coffee, my husband and I debate whether we really need a transistor radio and do such things even exist anymore?
We both grow pensive and mildly angry: How dare they do this to us? They practice a form of psychological terrorism that so far is more successful than their military prowess. Both stink, but we feel exposed, nakedly Jewish as we celebrate life and assay to heal and bring good to the community of man.
How did it come to this, that we are so hated by a poisonous behemoth that is doggedly determined to wipe us off of the map? A monstrous regime that spreads its tentacles into every corner of the world with messages of martyrdom, supremacy and domination?
Channeling my inner-Golde, wife of Tevye the Milkman, I do not want to leave dirty dishes in the sink before going to bed lest I’m charged with keeping a dirty house by the enemy. Jerusalem is not Anetevka and I try to get to bed on time, knowing that I’ll need some rest when the sirens go off. The biggest dilemma I face after brushing my teeth is, which pajamas shall I wear and must I wear a bra to bed? What is bomb-shelter etiquette, after all? How good must I look?
My friend Leah posted a video of her precious son along with hundreds of other young men at the induction center at Tel HaShomer, duffel bags and knapsacks forming a carpet of khaki green. To the amazement of teary-eyed parents, these holy heroes broke into spontaneous song and dance, expressing great honor in defending our holy land and protecting our people.
My reservist son is scheduled to return to the fight. Which border? I don’t know and the generals aren’t asking me. He informed us while sitting at shabbat dinner. I smiled, uttered a lame joke and served tea. My trepidation wore a cloak.
No other war in the history of war has been under such scrutiny. My friend Kathy says, “I can’t begin to understand how you must be feeling.” This is the most compassionate sentiment that anyone can make to an Israeli today.
On Friday, in the hours leading to Shabbos, families were on the beach, catching some sun, some waves, some normalcy before returning home in time for candle lighting. We weren’t hunkering in safe rooms but did, just to be safe, set our phones to the Home Command app.
The gym was full this morning and I was there. Because life goes on and my doctor says I’m lethargic, fat and need to take better care of myself.
New York native Andrea Simantov has lived in Jerusalem since 1995. She writes for several publications, appears regularly on Israel National Radio and owns an image consulting firm for women.
