My Date With the Idolator

Entry 2: MY DATE WITH THE IDOLATER (Recorded in writing July 5th)

I met the Indian Prince at the Ryles a few weeks ago during their Friday night salsa dancing. I call him the Indian Prince because of his big, beautiful eyes, lean frame, high cheekbones, full lips, dark, wavy hair. He knew how to dance, and had a penchant for twirling, and when he asked me for my number, I, of course, said yes.
He called me the next day. How lovely to be pursued! And we decided to go out on Monday.
I love getting ready for dates, and I often think of that well known song that Barbara Streisand sings, “Will he like me?” And then I think of that great mantra my mom taught me that flips the quote on its head. Instead of “will he like me?”—which is definitely part of the equation, what it’s really about, or rather, what I’d like to focus on as I put on my mascara is “Will I like him?”
***
I wear a black and red paisley print tailored skirt, which falls short of the knees, with black top, black heels, and a red pocketbook.
He picks me up in a red Honda Civic. I can’t remember the last time I was picked up for a date in a car—I think it was high school and the date’s parents were driving.
I scurry across the street in the dainty way women in heels do and open the door—there on the seat are freshly picked flowers that smell amazing. After lingering on the flowers, my eyes move to him. To my disappointment, he is wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt—freshly shaved though, and still looking handsome.
We drive to a Thai restaurant in Harvard Square (again with Harvard Square!), and suffice it to say, there is absolutely no chemistry. Nada. Zip. Zilch. We are as dynamic as the metal fork and spoon that we’ve abandoned on our plates with the leftover Pad Thai. Ever the conversationalist, I do my part, and to his credit he tries too, though I can barely understand him do to his accent, the terrible acoustics and the boisterous party of ten the table next to us.
Even though there were no sparks, no heat, not even a flint rock and a stick for us to work with, he is still a “touchy” guy.
What I mean by that: As we walk back to his car, he puts his arm around my waist. “Oh, what the hell!” I think, and so I put mine around his. (An aside: I should mention that I went into this date with a certain attitude which is: to “train,” to get additional experience for my Israel trip and to ready the soil for my numerous interactions that I plan on having with sexy Israeli men. I will divulge, this has occurred! With two beautiful men, Saturday night, June 28th on Ben Yehuda street in Jerusalem. My findings: like attracts like, more dating leads to more dating, more positive attention from men leads to additional positive attention. It’s like a man can smell the pheromones of another on a woman, and the woman becomes the object to win, to woo, to court…because she’s in demand! So, in summary, my attitude was such: this date serves many purposes - a fun way to spend an evening, an opportunity to improve dating skills, an appetizer training course to prep for delicious Israeli men, a means to bottle magical pheromones for later use.)
So, as we walked to his Honda Civic, arms around each other’s waist, I notice another couple, so comfortable in each other’s company, not touching but walking side by side. I make eye contact with them both; woman wears ¾ length sleeves and the man wears a yarmulke. It was at that point, with my arm still around the Indian Prince’s waist, that I realize I am so walking in the wrong direction.
The Indian Prince asks where I’d like to go next, and I offer some suggestions: continue in Harvard Square, go to Central, or Boston. And then he suggests “his place.” And when he says “his place,” I’m thinking, like coffee, because it’s a Monday night and a first date, and so, very curious about what his bachelor pad would look like, I say okay. I call a girlfriend, in his company, and tell her where I will be for the rest of the evening.
Why he wants to take me to his place, I have no idea, given the state that it is in. In the kitchen there are dishes in the sink and food on the counter and the rugs near the bathroom are wet because the washing machine pipes flooded the area; and he sleeps in the “living room” but the mattress that is usually there (on the floor) is out on the porch because this particular week in June, we are experiencing an incredible heat wave, and he hasn’t installed the air conditioner, which he informs me, takes only 20 minutes. Inside, it is broiling, and a little smelly—like pasta sauce and mildew-- and the fluorescent lights make my head hurt. On the walls, instead of shelves or paintings, are 4x5 rolls of grey paper with his random thoughts that he records in magic marker scrawl. In the living room, above his “bed,” or rather, where his mattress normally resides, is a grey page that reads in big writing “!I’m so lazy!” As you process all of this, dear reader, keep in mind that this man is 34 years old with a masters degree, a man who knew how to twirl me on the salsa dance floor.
He gives me a grand tour of his place—taking special pride in his weight room, which had 3-4 machines, and a hand written, Excel-inspired daily fitness schedule. Entering the last room, which he calls “the clothes room,” was the kicker. There is a rope extending kitty-corner that holds his drying shirts and pants. And around the room on hangers, not in a closet, but out in the open, on curtain rods, door knobs, and open draw corners, hang his clothes. As I try to take this all in, he says, “This, I call the clothes room…because it is filled with clothes…And this is G-d.”
And this is G-d.
First he introduces me to his clothes.
And then he introduces me to G-d.
My eyes rest on the shrine in front of me—there is the elephant statue I had seen on his cell phone at the salsa club a few days earlier.
“This is G-d?” I respond.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Imagine, entering the clothes room and being introduced to G-d.
Not a G-d.
Not my G-d.
But G-d.
Above the shrine, on the wall, painted in red, is something that makes my stomach spasm: a swastika. Though there is a slight variation in design: four dots in the spacing between the four arms. I am aware, then as now, that the Indian Prince did not paint that symbol with malicious intent, for I recognize that it has ancient, sacred significance within the Hindu religion. Yet I must say, seeing that shape, in red, against the white wall, without prior preparation, is quite a shock.
After a long time of silence, of staring…at the wall, at the shrine, the Indian Prince, cries “Oh! Please don’t be upset, this is not what you think it is…it’s a powerful sign for Hindus and it was also used in other cultures…”
--“Right,” I add. “Like the Native Americans before Hitler took it as a symbol for the Nazi Party.”
--“Right.”
[A Beat]
--Referring to the statue that looks to be part man, part elephant, I ask, “And this statue, this is…
--“G-d.”
--“How can G-d be manifested in an object,” I ask, as thousands of years of monotheistic white blood cells rush through my veins.
--“G-d comes to Earth as a human, you know like Jesus Christ. And a long time ago, G-d came to man as Ganasha.”
--“Who are they?” I ask pointing to the two, smaller statues on the shrine.
--“Vishnu and Shiva. Ganasha created the world. Vishnu preserves it, and Shiva destroys it.
--“So they are all gods?”
--“No, they are G-d.”
[Somewhere, in the far recess of my mind, a voice starts reciting the Shema. Seriously. Even as I speak I hear the Shema quietly playing in my brain.]
--“How is that possible?” I wonder aloud.
--The Indian Prince continues, “All three are G-d.”
--Earnestly, I try to understand: “So is it like three separate people in a room? Or is it like three facets of one individual?”
--“The second one,” he answers.
And though this is something that I can grasp, relating this idea to the Shekhina, the feminine face of G-d, a quality of the totality of G-d, I still don’t think we are on the same page…at all.
This concludes my date and theological session with the Indian Prince. Thank you! And good night!

Would you believe after all this, and when I say all this, please understand my tone: I experienced the event as emotionally jarring, yet also mentally expansive. In any case, you can see by my choice of language, and the fact that we are discussing philosophical ideas, that my focus is completely in my head and not in my body. You can imagine my surprise when, seconds after our theological session concluded, the Indian Prince tries to put the moves on.
Oh man, was the night over! Gabrielle has already left the building…with Ganasha, Lord of new beginnings, on one arm, and Shiva, Lord of destruction and transformation on the other. Or perhaps, Ganasha and I were walking out, embraced in Shiva’s many arms.

So now I’m off to Israel in search for, among many other things, a nice Jewish boy, with a big heart and brilliant mind, and a bright spirit who believes both in himself and in one, eternal, omnipotent G-d. Amen.

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