Get Thee to a Nunnery!

When I was 17 I discovered the “Nuns Having Fun” calendar series, and my life took a turn for the better. These religious enigmas were suddenly less enigmatic and ever more accessible to an Orthodox Jewess struggling to balance her role in religion with her quest for secular education.

Nuns– and not of the Whoopi Goldberg variety– were capable of taking a break from their marriages to Jesus and letting loose in the bowling alley or local amusement park. While they maintained their primary responsibility– spreading the word of their long-dead husband, the nuns depicted in this calendar also found time for themselves. They quite simply struck a work-life balance; they worked hard, but they also played hard(ish).

I continued to purchase the “Nuns Having Fun” calendar for several years after, but upon graduating college my devotion to the annual publication had dissipated. And then last night happened. While walking back from a restaurant week indulgence which included goat cheese cheesecake and excessive amounts of French breads, I happened upon a midtown convent.

And as I meandered by I noticed several very stylish nuns lurking beyond the church gate. Though sporting the traditional nun garb, they each had managed to customize the otherwise generic robes into something uniquely their own. Employing traditional accessories– belts, bags, and rosary beads– they succeeded in letting their individual personalities shine through.

They soon noticed the gazing Jew in black and politely smiled, exhibiting a look of content I’m pretty sure I have neither felt nor experienced. These nuns were entirely satisfied with their careers and “marriages.” At which point my friend Christine interrupted my jealous reflection and said, “Maybe I should join them? White is kind of  my color.”

I didn’t laugh. It wasn’t all that crazy to me. There are many moments when I dream of living the traditional Orthodox lifestyle– married and with the first or second muffin in the oven. There is both beautiful simplicity and a philosophical complexity in choosing that life.

And now– at 24– well beyond the marriageable threshold, that world has become like that of the convent– something fantastical, but otherwise inaccessible. Peering into it is both a comforting and confusing experience. I admire the tenacity of those who abide by its strict rules and regulations, but perpetually wonder where their sense of fulfillment comes from. Is it their children? Their freshly baked challahs? Their collection of Holy Scriptures?

Like any philosophically religious woman wandering through a secular world, I’m searching for a sense of completion. I’m searching for the kind of content the fashionable nuns were sporting. And I’m praying it doesn’t cost as much as New York City real estate.

When bridesmaid becomes a verb.

If I could marry a city, I’d become a polygamist and marry London and New York. In the last four days, I have been privileged to see “Blood Brothers” on the West End and “Sister Act” on Broadway. And, avid readers, celibacy has never looked so good.

Ironically, in the midst of my musical awakening, two close friends have gotten engaged. While bridesmaid for me has already assumed the power of a verb, I was still surprised, excited, and perhaps even a wee bit  jealous of all of the wedding bells brouhaha.

Two extremely special people are about to embark on a new phase of their lives, while I simply try to get through the 26th of April: the dreaded thesis due date. They are about to become lean, mean baby-producing machines, when I consider a successful day one in which I’ve consumed  my body weight in lattes.

These women have a sense of certainty pervading their futures, whereas I stand the chance of being in one of three continents come the 1st of June. Their futures include bright white dresses involving excessive amounts of lace, and mine is marked by another trip to Anthropologie to find the perfect little black dress.

Needless to say, our paths are diverging. They seem to be selecting the path well-traveled, whereas I– taking my cues from Robert Frost– am opting for the road less-traveled.

Commenting to my mother during the “Sister Act” intermission, I said, “If I became a nun, well, that certainly would surprise a few people. And it would likely qualify as the road less-traveled given the fact that the average age of a nun these days is 76.” Yes, I told my mother I was ready to join the sisterhood in an act of complete spontaneity.

However, for those who know me well, spontaneity is not my strong suit. I prefer the employment of Excel spreadsheets when making major life decisions. Even if I opt for the less popular path, it is a well-calculated decision (and usually made from the comforts of my local Starbucks).

And, as my mother noted, joining the divine sisterhood would just be a means of “escape” from the challenging realities I would prefer not to face. But upon reviewing both Sister Act films, I began to realize something about myself; something I verbally acknowledge, but rarely internalize: I like challenges.

I live and breathe off of challenges. In fact, I deliberately create them for myself so I can properly channel my Jewish neurosis. I take on Oxford-sized balls with little to no funding because I get an adrenaline high from last minute fundraising efforts.

And considering my success in these “challenging” endeavors, I am starting to believe that regardless of my major life decisions (which will be made this Friday), I am capable of handling all of the challenges that accompany them.

And if not– if I fail and find myself scrounging for abandoned cardboard boxes behind my local Starbucks– at least I can say I’m not 21 and pregnant with my third, counting down the days until I can drink caffeine again.

On becoming a nun.

Since beginning the “networking” process, whereby I attempt to hobnob with the rich and the famous in the hopes of procuring a job that will enable me to acquire the brownstone of my dreams, I have returned to a former realization. Instead of seeking temporary employment in a high powered industry, I can secure permanent placement in a religiously driven corporation.

Furthermore, in devoting myself to said corporation, all my  marital woes would be over. Instead of spending endless hours searching for stray cats on the streets of New York, I could settle into a steady and lifelong relationship– with G-d, that is. Yes, the position to which I am referring is nun and the location is a convent yet to be determined.

Who says nuns can't have fun?

Granted, I am Jewish and my closest connection to Catholicism was a trip I took to Rome at sixteen. And granted, said trip was a Jewish history tour of Rome, in which we sped past the Vatican in the pouring rain. Somehow, though, I believe that I could be both Jew and nun simultaneously. And, perhaps, if I am a particularly devout and silent nun, I might even be canonized into sainthood.

The woman, of course, who has inspired this trip down rosary bead lane is Edith Stein, a German-Jewish nun, now referred to as Saint Teresia Benedicta of the Cross. Yes, John Paul canonized her in 1998 (46 years after she passed away). Born into an Orthodox Jewish household, Stein joined the Catholic Church in her twenties. Legend, and by legend I mean devout Massachusetts Catholics, has it that Stein immediately began performing miracles– resuscitating those near death back to life.

Though Stein perished in the Holocaust (apparently Hitler was not very accepting of converts), she left behind an important legacy for young women contemplating the Divine Sisterhood. Only in her twenties, Stein forewent the possibility of marrying an eligible Jewish bachelor and pursuing a college degree in philosophy for the sake of G-d.

As a recent story on NPR indicates, this is no longer the norm. Fewer and fewer women are willing to make the “sacrifice,” and hence the average age of a nun in the United States has risen to 76. The thought of waving goodbye to all forms of modern technology– cell phones, laptops, iPods– is beyond any Millennial’s comprehension.

However, I would be willing to make all these sacrifices if the convent were willing to make one itsy-bitsy accommodation: Starbucks. I know the Catholic Church doesn’t make a habit of indulging materialism (well, not intentionally anyway), but I am requesting just this one capitalist form of compensation. Provide me with a daily latte, and I promise to pursue otherwise spiritual pursuits.

Or, perhaps, taking a cue from my favorite cinematic nun, I can start a Motown-esque choir and raise funds for underprivileged youth:

All I want for Christmas is a bagel and schmear.

I know I am rather delayed in my posting on David Black, the latest intern to depart from the World Policy Journal. However, I have been distracted by a rather exciting event said to occur this weekend: the Gay Boys Barbecue. For one evening only, my mother has decided to host an event for the lovely men of Manhattan, a.k.a. the Chelsea Boys. These Boys are the ones who taught me my very first life lesson: never pursue acting, and more importantly, never date an actor.

While I have no doubt they will provide future blog fodder,  I must return to the intern of the day. David, a prepster attending a hippie school (Bard), filled a particular niche in the office this summer– the I-actually-understand-bar-graphs-and-what-they-mean-for-humanity niche, to be precise. Yes, the resident economist, he wrote, and with quite a bit of passion and understanding, about all things China. He got down and dirty with communist dictators, and even was the recipient of some lovely “hate messages” for his stance on future global economic development.

Mind-numbing numbers aside, David was an interesting character for another reason: He was a non-Jew living on the Upper West Side, code for “I’m a Modern Orthodox Jew, and I graduated from [insert ivy league here]”. Yes, all those doctors, lawyers, and Columbia academics– the ones who take off nearly all of September for four weeks of consecutive High Holidays– reside between 59th and 109th, and west of Central Park. And yet, somehow, David, a rugby player possessing multiple pairs of loafers, calls this 50 block span of the city his own.

He is a testament to the diversity of New York. His family, a pack of globe trotting journalists, have chosen mini Jerusalem as their new home. They even paid to send him and his sister to Trinity, the leading prep school in the United States, which coincidentally is 50% Jewish. From this I must conclude that David and his family have a secret addiction to bagels and schmears (as in cream cheese and lox, people). And frankly, who can blame them?

But just in case this entry is peppered with too many references to my people, I leave you with one of my favorite Catholic photographs– drawn from the folder on my laptop entitled,  “Nuns having way more fun than I am.”

Here's to state fairs in the summertime!