The Sweet Life?

It's my first year observing Rosh Hashanah. It has been uplifting and educational. Everyone has been friendly, and I've really enjoyed myself as I embrace new customs. For those of you who do not know, this is the 2nd day of festivities for Rosh Hashanah, which started at sundown on the 12th. It is the Jewish new year to put it simply, but it is so much more. I will not wax spiritual or philosophical on you, because my life won't allow it. There are many lovely moments I could pick out to share, but this one while not my favorite will stick with me forever. No pun intended.

A traditional dish for Rosh Hashanah is apples with honey. It is symbolic for wishing for a sweet new year. After services let out on Thursday afternoon at the Touhill there were apples and honey for everyone, including yours truly. So, now I walk across the expanse of the UMSL parking lot with hundreds of other Jews and some fellow students. I click-clack in my heels that are killing my feet. I eat my sticky apple. And really I have to leave off taking bites and start licking it, because the honey is running and dripping. I'm painfully aware that if I were walking with someone it would not be as embarrassing. If I were with someone we would be talking, maybe giggling. But I'm alone, and my thigh high begins to roll down my leg. It slips further and further with each step. I can't even see my car yet. I can't just stand there. I walk and I pray. Please let me make it to the car before it slips below my hemline. It becomes clear that that prayer won't be answered. I walk and tug nonchalantly at my leg through my dress. It's no good. I'm either going to wind up with a bunched up nylon around my ankle or I'm going to have to take more intrusive measures to fix the matter. I look behind me and more and more Jews approach. There's no where to hide. I'm not near the cars, and if I were that's the main focal point anyhow.

I plug my mouth with my sticky apple. I reach up my dress grab the stocking and quickly yank up.

This was a wasted effort. The thigh high has double up on itself so it is sticking to itself, much like me with my honey fingers and paper napkin as a minor side offense to this trek to my car. I continue to walk hoping I have at least bought myself some time. I haven't. I have a choice let it fall or take it off. I opt for take it off. Any purposeful action seems less embarrassing than a saggy fallen thigh high around the ankle option.

Now, mid-way through my trek, I plug my mouth again with the apple. I put the napkin in my purse which dangles off my arm and I go into a flamingo stance as I kick off one heel. I realize my tired feet don't like this idea. And as I don't want to add falling on my ass to the mix of this fix I step out of the other heel, too. I quickly reach up the dress and peel off the thigh high. I repeat on the other leg, step back into my heels, unplug my mouth, and walk back to the car smiling.

Shanah Tovah