Ladies, ladies, ladies, have I got something for you!
Picture me in an old-timey carnival worker outfit, complete
with flat top straw hat and glued on mustache, using a cane to point to the
ladies in the audience as I sell my wares.
And by wares, I of course mean my brother-in-law, David.
Ever since Michael and I started dating, I’ve been over David’s
shoulder, trying to fix him up with friends near and far. I’ve found myself
talking to women I meet and work with and telling them, “you should meet my
brother –in-law, with those raised eyebrows and half smile that tells them they’re
getting a good deal.
David is kind, he has a contagious laugh, and is also of the
shy variety that masks shyness with humor. This makes dating difficult. I know,
because I’m the exact same personality type. For me, it was easier—I could just
flip my hair, and Michael came running. David, while sharing the dapper good
looks of all the Berg family boys, does not have the long, luxurious hair of
his sister-in-law. Good thing, too. I don’t tolerate competition.
So David waits. Like I once waited, and like Michael once
waited—to find the right blend of weird—that girl who loves to read but also to
have adventures, who loves to play games, who gets along with his family, whose
faith is strong. And she’ll show up, eventually.
But I just can’t help myself. Ever since I saw the movie Fiddler on the Roof
for the first time,
I always knew that deep down, I was an elderly Jewish widow who could make
matches. It was disappointing news indeed when my mother told me that match-making
was not a profession in rural Pennsylvania. And in most of American society.
Especially not for a WASP-y Shiksa like me.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t try. I chuckle at things
girlfriends say, and then slyly add in my, “oh how I wish my brother-in-law
David could meet you.”
Other than the distance of most of my parade of perfect
girls for David, it’s a pretty easy sell, especially now that he’s out of
school and working as a children’s minister full time in Georgia.
Hear that ladies, he loves kids. And works as a minister.
And is a polite southern boy.
I’d go on, but I know that David is somewhat mortified that
I’m posting this on the interwebs for all the ladies to see.
It’s also somewhat selfish—I do want a sister-in-law that I
like, and who will help even out the trio of irritable constantly
humming/whistling/singing behavior that is Michael, David, and their father all
at once. My awesome mother-in-law and I
could use another ally.
Did I mention that my mother-in-law is awesome too? Oh I
did? And that David also comes with an awesome father-in-law?
I impatiently wait for David’s perfect bride. But I don’t
complain. What’s the use complaining? Other women enjoy complaining…not Yente…I