When the Jewish Dating Pool Dwindles

With all the talk about dating Jewish men, it certainly makes one wonder about the Jewish dating pool. One would think that, in Manhattan of all places, there would be an endless supply of nice Jewish boys for a nice Jewish girl (with a little Shiksa flare).

Wrong.

First of all, I go to a Catholic, Jesuit university. The closest thing I can find to a nice Jewish boy here is a guy who doesn’t throw his Bible at me and say, “Hey, read the second half, it’s good.” (No joke, this happened once at a party.) So I (though not for the purpose of dating) started getting involved in Jewish groups in the city. There are dozens of groups that coordinate events for Jewish “young professionals,” and even though I’m still a student, I thought getting involved would be a great way to feel a sense of community. And I have, for sure.

After a handful of bizarre encounters, though, I’ve begun towonder if “20’s and 30’s” is code for “singles on the prowl.” I would be the last person to call myself an expert on dating, but here’s a few examples of what not to do if you’re limiting yourself to the, say, Upper West Side Jewish community for dating:

I went to a huge Shabbat dinner a few weeks ago, knowing nobody but the host, who had 150 other people to entertain. And given that a good many of those 150 found themselves in the same position, there was a lot of forced small-talk going on. Which is fine, of course—until the unwanted advances start coming. A doctor introduced himself to me by remarking on just how cold I looked when I walked in (15 blocks in 25 degree weather is not, I’ve learned, “walking distance”). But within 45 seconds, after I mentioned that I was an undergrad, he said something along the lines of, “Oh, God—you’re 20, aren’t you? I shouldn’t even be talking to you—I’m old enough be your father.”Good, make it clear that you’re only here to scope out prospects. Not long after, I smiled sweetly and ducked to make conversation with someone a little more age-appropriate. I brushed off the guy who hit on me as the token 40-year-old and moved on. Until the following Saturday.

I went to morning Shabbat services at a completely different place. And the same doctor was hanging around. When he came over to say hello, I figured he remembered me from the week prior and planned to pick up where we left off. Not so much. He recited his entire shpiel again, verbatim. Moral of the story? If you’re so old that you don’t remember trying to pick me up seven days prior (and sober, nonetheless),you’re too old to be trying to pick up a 20-year-old.

The same goes for those two characters who have friended me on Facebook—not once, but twice. Especially the one who, both times, included a note trying to convince me to accept his request by complimenting my photo and name-dropping people who claim to have never exchanged more than two words with him. If it happens again, you better believe I’ll drop a note saying, “I’ve always wanted to be Facebook friends with somebody who finished his MBA when I was in middle school!”