THE UNLIKELY LIBERAL

I’m an Orthodox Jewish mother and grandmother, medically trained, working as a Lactation Consultant. My politics lean Right. And over the years I have seen things and learned things about people that make me believe that good parenting has little to do with sexual orientation. I tend to keep my opinions to myself on this matter because- well, my extended family would disagree, to put it mildly. So of course, that’s why I’m posting on my blog about it.

So, surprise! I’m not against same-sex parenting. (Not so sure about same-sex marriage though; I wonder if some gays aren’t putting too much stock in that piece of paper. I mean, why do we celebrate marriage with big parties and whole communities involved? Marriage is a contract. What other contract is celebrated in this way? If it were just about two people committing to each other out of love or whatever, or if it were just about property, then just go to the registry office or sit in front of a lawyer and sign some documents. Why are we dancing and hiring halls and caterers? Because traditionally marriage is more than just a legal contract, it is about the community wishing the couple a future involving, not roses and valentines, but children, the future of that community. Now, a legal marriage is not necessarily a happy one, but I get the idea; maybe it’s having the RIGHT to get married that is more important than the actual getting married. I am reminded of a scene in The Life of Brian, where Stan, a transgendered man, or Eric Idle in drag, to be precise, wants to have babies; but since he can’t have babies, his group agrees to vote for him to have the RIGHT to have babies. And he is satisfied with this. But I digress.)

I won’t go as far as to say that I would jump for joy and click my heels in the air if any of my kids turned out to be gay R"L. But I wouldn’t sit shiva either. I would be very saddened but supportive.

So I maintain the belief that the ideal family unit involves a present mother and father of wanted children, with some extended family to back this arrangement up. But as we all know, this doesn’t always happen. Marriages break down, partners die, mental illness develops, unwanted babies are born, abuse is perpetrated. And kids are stuck in the middle. Heterosexual unions have certainly produced enough screwed-up people. And conversely, I don’t think they necessarily have the monopoly on producing happy, well-adjusted kids either.

Same-sex parenting by design is a relatively recent phenomenon, often made possible by various reproductive technologies. Of course there have been situations in the past with Uncle raising orphaned nephew etc. But biological, as well as adoptive parenting by design means that two adults have chosen to commit to each other and to raise a wanted child in a loving environment. There is usually great expense involved as well. There’s no ‘Oops’ involved, as can occur in normal parenting. (Yes, I can use the word ‘normal’ here, as the statistical norm is still the heterosexual family unit. Don’t get your PC knickers in a knot.)

On the other hand, same-sex unions can also be crappy and destructive; people are still people. So if there’s marriage, there’s divorce, and if there’s kids, then there are good and bad reasons for having them and good and bad ways of treating them. ‘Means well’ doesn’t mean ‘Does well’.

In the end, kids need love and they need boundaries. They need Chessed (love, kindness) and they need Gevurah (strength, boundaries). And I really don’t think that the gender or the sexual orientation of the parent absolutely determines his or her ability to provide this.

So please don’t rip off my shaytel and snap my soup ladle in two, and exile me into the wilderness. I just don’t believe in stereotypes. And neither am I a stereotype.

ZUMBAAAARRGGH!

I have often argued that Jews are not meant to exercise because there is no word for ‘exercise’ in Yiddish. And don’t give me ‘gymnastika’ or such, I mean exercise such as when your doctor tells you that you have to go and get some. Our ancestors back in Der Heim didn’t have a word for it because there was no such thing. Exercise was invented by rich people with too much time on their hands and not enough to do to fill it. How else can you explain sports such as golf? (‘A pleasant walk, spoiled’ according to George Bernard Shaw.)

OK, so I know that exercise is important for health maintenance, but when my doctor told me I had to get some and lose some weight, I went to the bakery for a second opinion.

No, I didn’t, only kidding. There wasn’t a free parking spot in front of the bakery, so I didn’t go in.

No, really, enough kidding around. I have been exercising since before Jane Fonda conned us all into Spandex leotards and told us to ‘feel the burn’, while she was busy being bulimic, but let’s not go there. I have done so much stuff in my quest for physical improvement, and I have jumped- or crawled- on to so many bandwagons, I could write a blog!

Jazz ballet, aerobics, power yoga, Pilates, personal gym training, water aerobics, belly dancing, Israeli dancing, swimming, running, power walking, crunches, munches, you name it. I’ve been injured by the best of them! But the latest and greatest is Zumba.

Zumba is great but don’t believe the infomercials. ‘It’s a dance party! It’s fun! You won’t know you’re exercising’! Oh, is that a fact. Let me tell you, you know you’re exercising all right, when your heart is hammering and the sweat is pouring off you while you salsa. And, you know, it is fun, at least compared to doing 50 squats while holding 5kg dumbbells. That is definitely NOT fun.

But, oy! The next day! My knees and muscles are on fire and I feel like I have been beaten with a stick. It’s already not good that I can’t get out of a chair without making noises, being over 50 and all, but now I can hardly twitch without triggering some sort of pain. Look, I am exaggerating a bit, but only a bit. And it is getting better, apart from my right knee, but that’s an old story.

The other day, when I was going to my remedial massage therapist, (I call her Hands of Steel) I saw a line of grim-faced women in the gym where she works, carrying dumbbells and doing walking lunges, barked at by a trainer who could have been cast as Eva Braun, and it was all I could do not to whisper to them, ‘Go to Zumba! You’ll still be in pain but it’s fun!’

And the music is loud, to cover my krechtzing.

NOT MY PROBLEM, BUDDY

This whole preoccupation that religions have regarding the covering of various body parts of women is really starting to annoy me.   You can’t help noticing that the more conservative the society, the more women are covered up, effaced quite literally, to the logical extreme of the Taliban and the burqa. OK, so let the Muslims work this one out for themselves. I’m Jewish. We’re different.

But I am getting heartily sick and tired of being dictated to and exhorted by various Va’adei Tzniut, or rabbinic panels who seem to have not a lot else to do but worry about women’s necklines and sleeve lengths. Because it seems there is no end to it. I am not getting into a fight over whose Shulchan Aruch rules, or who is more observant or whatever; I just want to know where it will end. I’m pretty sure it won’t end with a burqa, although there is this little cult in Israel where the women and girls wear layer upon layer of clothing in the name of Tzniut, and I have heard of some reference to ‘burqa ladies’, but have never seen them. I presume that these women wouldn’t get spat on in Bet Shemesh. But I digress.

Hair covering: I’m cool with it. I‘m cool with you too. If you want to cover with a wig, with a scarf, show 3 fingersbreadths of hair or none at all, or wear a hat on a wig on a shaved head, or not cover at all, it is not my business. You are following your customs, your mother, your rabbi, your guru, your choice of lifestyles. You can shave into a Mohawk and cover with a flowerpot if you feel that this is authentic. Good for you. Not for me. (And it isn’t authentic, by the by.)

Sleeves: I choose to wear elbow length and longer in colder weather. By you, I may be a Frummy, or the Whore of Babylon. I don’t care. You can wear no sleeves, cap sleeves, puffed sleeves, leg-o-mutton sleeves, to the elbow, to the wrist, over the wrist bone, trailing on the ground, wrapped around you like a straitjacket. Your choice.

Hems. Necklines. Colours. Fabrics. Hosiery. Everyone has an opinion.

I do believe in blending in out of respect for others. So if I do venture into some enclave where women are expected to wear, say, a plastic garbage bag for a coat and a fishing net on the head, I might do so; but I won’t go there unless I have to. 

So, if I go to Shul, I wear pantyhose, but the rest is what I do anyway. Shaytel; ¾ to long sleeves, depending on the weather; skirt knee to mid calf; neckline usually below the collarbones but no cleavage (not that I have any cleavage anyway); sensible shoes because of all the walking involved going to Shul, and I’m too old and fat for extreme shoes and tight-fitted clothes. Good enough for me but I’m sure not for all. My girls make their own choices, no longer needing my approval, and I accept this even thought there are things I disagree with.

Now, I don’t wear a robe when entertaining, I get dressed. If I wore a robe I would wear an embroidered kaftan or something, but I can’t stand the whole Boro Park robe thing. Get dressed, for Pete’s sake! But hey! If you want to wear a robe, do so! Your home! Your choice! But see this notice in a supermarket in Monsey, NY:

To which I say, most respectfully: Go jump in the lake! Go get something better to do! If I want to buy a clingy red robe, I will! I didn’t come here to be preached to! If I wanted a mussar shiur, I would go to one! “P’robe when buying a robe”? Probe THIS!

Because you know what? It’s your problem, Jewish male. If you don’t like the way a woman is dressed, LOOK AWAY. Avert your gaze. It seems that there is this tendency among some weak-minded males of today to put the entire onus on women to not be attractive. This is not Halacha. The mere fact that we are allowed, nay, encouraged to wear nice wigs and not a mop or a dead cat on our heads tells us that we are not supposed to look strange or ugly, and we can wear long, attractive wigs, other women’s hair!- but our own hair is for our husbands to see. It is about dignity and status, not about shame. With Muslims, it’s different; girls are covered from puberty or even earlier, single girls as well as married, so as not to inflame men with passion. But that’s them, not us. Sure there is a Jewish standard of modesty, and standards differ; but married women covering hair to whatever degree, and details of body coverage, is usually decided between that couple and/or within that community. (And BTW, there is some standard of modesty expected of men re short pants, sleeves, tight fit etc. but somehow nobody ties themselves in knots over this.)

So women are allowed to be attractive, and men must learn to control their gaze and their thoughts and feelings. This is called ‘Civilization’.

Men in the general community also have some problems with flashy females. When so much flesh is on display, where does one look? Men like to look? OK. But civilized men learn not to ogle or perve or leer. Men who wish to do any of these things, or, to take it to an extreme, men who wish to do violence to women, will do so, even if there is only a thumbnail to see. The rest is excuses for uncivilized behaviour. Men! Look away, or look for a second (more than 3 seconds is an ogle, more than 5 seconds is a perve) and think of something else, like work or politics or world events.

I don’t go for the Slutwalk mentality, I think that there is SOME responsibility that women must have for self-protective behaviour. There are some places you just wouldn’t go to alone or at night or at all if you don’t want to be interfered with; this is common sense. And it’s plain rude and inappropriate to show too much in the workplace. If a woman wants to be taken seriously at work, there are some rules to follow. Socially? Use common sense and be aware of what messages you are sending out, and don’t get shit-faced and then complain about being mishandled. If you want him to be a gentleman, then act like a lady.

But what are we going to do about this creeping attitude of covering up Jewish women, more and more and more? These mealy-mouthed exhortations are just annoying. There are shops in 13^th Ave Boro Park where I can get only clothes in somber dark colours of correct drape and cut and style, so if that’s what I want, that’s where I’ll go. Or I will make my own choices.  But don’t give me lectures in the supermarket please, Bnos Melochim or whoever you are.

This battle over women’s and girls’ modesty is not going to be ‘won’ by demeaning or attacking women who don’t conform, nor will it be ‘won’ by preaching. Women will dress and comport themselves as they feel is right and men will just have to deal with it, whatever it is. Civilization.

PINK PINK PINK

 It started with fairies.

Oh sure, there was always pink for girls and blue for boys. Then in the 70’s the soft pastels gave way to orange! And green! And red!  And navy blue! And brown! And all sorts of dark saturated colours that had the grannies tsk-tsking about how inappropriate these new clothes were for babies. Certainly the bright sunshine yellow (as opposed to pastel ‘lemon’) was a mistake for most new babies, making their jaundice fluoresce.

But something changed. The great social experiment of the 70’s kind of slunk away and so did the unisex overalls for toddlers. And now, in the 21^st century, it’s pink for girls. And not just pink, but PINK! PINKPINKPINKPINK! Pink is compulsory for girls, all girls. You must luff ze pink! And pink tutus and pink party frocks and pink princess paraphernalia. And pink Lego! For girls.

For boys?  Meh. Miniature adult clothes. Dressing tots in jeans and check shirts, who thought of that? And jackets and polo shirts. Cute T-shirts at least. Navy, chocolate, green, usually pretty somber. But girls? A riot of pink in every shade, from baby fairy breath of pinkish mauve through roses and peonies and fuschia to shocking, burn-out-your-retina PINK.

It’s not a colour so much as a statement, but I don’t know what it is trying to say. Girls are girly. Girls are expected to be girly. Girls are expected to like being girly. Am I reading too much into this?

So, the fairies. The trend started in the 90’s and it was and remains cute. Little girls dressed in tulle tutus and wings, usually pink, maybe mauve, not just for parties, but all the time. How sweet! Opening up the windows of their little imaginations. Does it? So why just pink fairies, is that all they can imagine? Of course it all ties in with Disney merchandising. I grew up with Sleeping Beauty and all that lot, but then some marketing genius packaged up the whole concept and the Disney Princesses were unleashed onto the public, along with all the merchandise, from socks and undies to onesies and nighties and dresses and backpacks and drink bottles and and and. And mummies buy them, because they are usually girls too.

Look, I now know that gender identification isn’t all a cultural construct like we used to believe in the 70’s.  Boys and girls are different. It’s the way in which this difference is expressed that is the cultural construct.

My first kids, twins, were born in 1980. I had been in university for most of the 70’s, which is why so much of early gender theory was implanted in my brain. So when I had a boy and a girl, I was determined that they have equal opportunity in life and that my daughter wouldn’t be defined by such superficialities as pink frou-frou. So, ever practical, I dressed them in overalls, (for ease of handling as well because it’s easy to pick up a twin by the cross straps on the back) and my particular favourites were matching red Oshkosh overalls. I wasn’t that hard core, I did allow some tiny bit of trim on my girl’s white t-shirts, sometimes.

And then one day, at about 8 months of age, she crawled to my tea towel drawer and draped some towels over her shoulders; then she took the coloured rings from the Fisher Price stacking toy and placed them on her wrists, like bangles; and then she posed, waiting to be admired. My son, meanwhile, was pushing toy trucks along the floor making vroom-vroom sounds. It then occurred to me, not for the first time, that a lot of the stuff I had learned in uni was rubbish.

Later, I remember being critical of what the girls did in school, always with the colouring-in and the pretty decorations on everything they did, and I scorned it as girly-whirly-shmirly. I tried to compliment my kids on their achievements and their efforts, and to encourage the Pursuit of Excellence! But I should have just shut up with the critiques and just admired everything. They needed the admiration and the praise, not the crits. But at the same time, the boys, definitely less into decorative arts, were not encouraged to do anything much with an aesthetic, even if they wanted to. Art classes vanished after the early primary years. So how much is nature and how much cultural pressure? Bit of both; but kids are not blank slates for sure.

But this pink thing makes me a bit uneasy. I just think that 100 years of feminism shouldn’t be leading us to this. And of course, there’s so much worse to follow as far as little girls’ clothing and toys are concerned. As sickening as Barbie is, Bratz dolls are far worse. And the pressure to dress the tweens like mini hookers is dreadful. I was in Sydney not long ago and took a night train, and the young women there seemed to have only two modes of dress; Beach Bunny and Working Girl. I don’t know if it’s just Sydney on a weeknight or everywhere, but it was hard to know where to look, there was so much on show. Having some sort of standard of modesty in dress cannot a bad thing!

It seems that whether pinky or punky, it’s not really about imagination or self-expression in the end, it’s about succumbing to pushy peer groups and/or pushy marketing. Isn’t it?

OPRAH, OY.

I’ve been looking at little snippets of Oprah’s foray into the ‘hidden culture’ of Hasidism in Brooklyn.  Actually, for Hasidim, read, mainly Lubavitch Chabad hasidim, and for Brooklyn, read Crown Heights, with a smidge of Boro Park and Williamsburg thrown in for background shots. Actually, throw in a few Satmar and Belzer for atmosphere in the opening credits. Nothing like a funny hat to make for good TV.

I don’t know why Oprah decided to venture into this very unhidden Hidden World, and overall, I guess it looks pretty positive; only a few things made me cringe. That’s not bad! I think ‘the Hasidim’ turned out looking OK, if a little hard to believe. I guess I would feel something similar if I were Amish and watched a program about the Anabaptists, with Amish portrayed as representing Mennonites as well as Amish. But if I were Amish I wouldn’t be watching TV or computers, so it’s a bit theoretical.

And it’s nice, among all the awful dreck which has been going on about sex offenders and paedophiles, not to mention the horrific case of Leiby Kleisky z”l, to see that the Hasidim are nice folk.

We meet a Chabad couple, expecting their 10^th child, besha’ah tova, who give us a bit of background about marital relationships, the role of women, attitudes toward non-Jews, philosophy of education, raising kids to be good citizens etc, in the background of a neat modest home full of books- sforim as far as I could discern- and Tzedaka boxes and shofars on the mantelpiece and pictures of the Rebbe on the walls. We join them around the table for a ‘typical Jewish meal’ of gefilte fish and chicken soup and kugel. We hear how NONE of these 9 children has EVER seen a TV; even the eldest, about 15, neither knows nor cares about TV; it’s ‘a box? Where people talk?’ Everyone, to the smallest child, has a purpose in life; to make the world a better place. Oprah is blown away; so am I! I mean, who eats gefilte fish and kugel on a week night?? For Pete’s sake.

Then she meets a BLACK hassidic family; again she is gobsmacked. So Dina’s Jewish mom had a relationship with a handsome black trumpeter (and how I would LOVE to hear the details of THAT story) and had a black Jewish baby who was raised in a Jewish house by her Jewish mother and grandmother; and then Dina grew up, but we don’t see who she married, and had 2 children; and Dina, seeking truth and purpose, became ‘hasidic’. We see her attractive son, who professes a love for his Judaism, but he don’t look hasidic to me; he looks like a really cool dude, no payess, cropped hair, some sort of facial hair which may or may not look like a trimmed goatee; and her pretty, be-shaytelled daughter with her white hasidic husband, to whom colour was not even anything to notice or remark upon. I mean, he was a bit short and plump and not very good-looking, but nice fellow, great personality, I’m sure. So Oprah marvels! In the Hasidic world, colour isn’t an issue?! No, no, not at all! she is assured. (I think I got all that, I might have missed something when I was laughing and I fell off my chair.) The ones with a problem about this family’s being black and Jewish are the Black folks. Well, THAT, I believe.

And then I saw a bit where Shterna, Chaya, Toby and Brocha with 32 children between them, while chatting about raising children and mikvah and the role of ‘Hasidic’women etc, were asked by Oprah a pretty simple question: How would you deal with a child who was different? ‘And by different, I mean… gay?’

At first, I thought I could hear crickets chirping in the silence that ensued. The women were really trying to think what they could possibly say. Nobody knew of any gay people in the community, nobody knew anyone who had to leave because they didn’t fit in. One thought it was an extreme sort of difference. Another said that she would love her child through any sort of ‘difference’ and that they acknowledge that homosexuality exists, but anyone who was gay would not be broadcasting it. Only 2 minutes of tape, so not exactly in-depth. So really, there is not much to comment on here.

Because we all know that gays are everywhere and there is no place for them in conservative societies, Hasidic included. The Torah is quite clear about this; male homosexuality specifically. But a recent declaration from Orthodox Rabbis goes as far as to say that, as G-d is good, He would not create a problem without a cure and therefore, gays are obligated to seek treatment.

I have a couple of things to say about this. Firstly, who gives this treatment? What modern-day trained psychologist would actually believe that homosexuality is an illness which can be treated? So, it is very unlikely that these therapists, whoever they are, are trained.

Secondly, although I don’t dispute that G-d is good, there is a lot of shit that happens which is inexplicable. Babies die of leukemia and roofs fall in and crush people and terrorist bombs blow up innocent families, and where is the ‘cure’ for this? Where was the ‘cure’ for the Holocaust? So if a person is born gay, is there really a ‘cure’? And what if doesn’t work, like the chemotherapy for the baby’s leukemia?

Thirdly, how many gay people in the history of the world have been ‘cured’? Oh, many struggle, and may remain celibate or marry against their inclinations. Is that a ‘cure’? And would you want your son or daughter to marry such a person, struggling with his or her sexual orientation, even though they may be noble and wonderful people? And many suffer their whole lives from public and private humiliation, and many commit suicide. And some just walk away from their birth culture and live openly as gays. But not too many in Crown Heights or Williamsburg or Boro Park. Well, none that these women know.

Oprah really dropped a bomb with her ‘extreme’ question.

All we Orthodox can really do is ’hate the sin and love the sinner’. And admit that we have no answers.

Russian Mourning

Nobody mourns the way a Russian mourns.

My housekeeper had to put her poodle down a few weeks ago; he was 12, it’s always sad to lose a beloved pet, and she knows that it’s only a dog, in the end. But. Her household consists of a husband and 2 grown daughters, and between the 4 of them, it seems they could fill a bucket with their tears.

I’ve always found that Russians do things bigger than everyone else. They party harder, they love more passionately, they write better novels (they used to, anyway), they do amazing social inequality, leather pants and leopard skin notwithstanding. Big hair, big bling, full make-up, always the nails done. They are extremely proud and patriotic (even though they left Russia, so obviously things weren’t so great there). And boy can they drink. And dance.

But they do morose and moody big too.

I don’t know when this doggy mourning will be over. Every day I hear from my housekeeper about how empty the house is without little Tosha. How there’s nobody running to greet her when she comes home. How clever he was; how she had to employ a Russian-speaking cleaning lady (yes, my housekeeper has a cleaning lady) because he only spoke Russian and he was so territorial he wouldn’t allow non-Russian speakers in the house. How every morning her husband goes for a walk by himself and cries. How everybody calls to give condolences, which makes them all cry harder. And when she tells her family to get a grip, they all accuse her of being heartless and they all cry some more.

‘And I still have his leash in my car, from his last trip to the vet’, she sobbed today.

‘And I’m sure you will use it again, for another dog’, I said, perhaps a little callously.

She shook her head, choked up, unable to speak.

‘Oh, it’s got his name on it, right?’ I guessed.

In a quavering voice, she replied, ‘In diamantes!’

Russians.

FRIENDLY FRANKFURT FLUGHAFFEN

Here I am again, complaining about First Worldproblems (see earlier post) but I do love to kvetch! And sometimes annoyingthings, or even disasters, become funny when viewed from a safe distance,proving that old maxim that Comedy = Tragedy +Time.

After that buildup, I‘m going to talk about oneof my least favourite airports in the world (so far experienced) and that isFrankfurt. I don’t think that I have ever been through there without somethingbad going on. I mean, I think I’ve been through there 4 times. That’s enough toform an impression! I’ve voted for politicians on less than that. I’ve madelife-changing decisions on less than that!

Frankfurt Flughaffen is a uniformly grim-lookingplace where everything is miles from everything else. Wherever you are, it is agiven that you are a half-hour walk from where you need to be. I don’t know howthey do it, it must take planning. And unlike most modern airports which looklike shopping malls, FF is made up of bleakly lit corridors with a snackbar ortwo along the way. Maybe I get to see the crappy side of the place because I amin transit to or from Israel as a rule, and as we know, the El Al counter isfar, far away from everything in case some freedom fighter decides to bomb it.Maybe that’s what it is, although in transit from the US it was also bleh.

So in my last trip I was with hubby and we werefully paid up business class and our ticket had us going Melbourne, Singapore,Frankfurt on Singapore Airlines, then El Al to Israel, then back from Israel toFrankfurt by Lufthansa, then back the rest of the way Singapore Airlines (whichby the way, I think is the best airline ever, no complaints at all, and ChangiAirport is what all airports should aspire to.) We had 5 hours in Frankfurt andwe wanted to go to the business lounge. Star Alliance and all that, we thoughtwe could go to the Lufthansa business lounge. Silly us.

The young woman guarding the lounge forbade usentrance as we were not flying Lufthansa on that leg. But Star Alliance? Nope.So where can we go? ‘You can sit zere,’ waving to the gate lounge. For 5 hours?Shrug. Is there someone we can talk to? No.

So I was starting to get feisty. We wanderedaround for a bit and found nothing anywhere that would point us to some otheroption for a business lounge, and believe it or not my husband actually hadbusiness he had to transact, so, increasingly annoyed, we returned to the stonewall of the Frankfurt Fraulein. No joy there.

Then I saw someone at a desk nearby. I marchedover and asked for help. Business class. Singapore airlines. Star alliance. Notletting us in. She was outraged on our behalf! We all marched back toBrunnhilde, much Deutsch was spoken, but our champion then turned to us,non-plussed and said she couldn’t help. Only if we were flying out on Lufthansacould we use the lounge. But we are flying back on Lufthansa? No, no help.

I am now muttering ‘Ve are only following orders!’and starting to hum ‘Deutschland Uber Alles’ which is always a bad sign. Butwait! I see another person behind a desk marked Business Class. Off I go. (Bythis time, hubby is leaving it up to me and being a very meek Jew.)  Whole story again. But you can only goif you are in Business Class, madame. But we ARE! Ach zo?! Zat is not right!Off we go back to the Iron Madchen. More rapid fire Deutsch. Again,bewilderment on out erstwhile saviour’s face.  No, sorry, you cannot go up to the lounge! Our Star Alliancelevel was only Silver premium, and we need to be Gold. And El Al is indeed inthe Alliance, but there is ‘a difficult relationship’ between El Al and FrankfurtFlughaffen. Zo.

BUT! There is a nice lounge we can go to! The Luxxlounge, for El Al. They renamed it. And one more thing. It is outside theairport; we will have to ‘emigrate into Germany’ as he put it. (All I can thinkof is ‘Juden Raus!’ Out of the airport!) ‘That doesn’t look too good, youknow’, I said. ‘No, no, it is actually a very good lounge!’, said Helpful Hans,not getting the reference. ‘American style, zey have showers too!’ I murmuredto my husband, ‘And this time, they’re real!’ I can’t help myself.

And a nice lady walked us the 2kms to passportcontrol, and told us an interesting story:

‘Yes, zey are very strict with allowing peopleinto ze lounge. For example, once zere was a lady viss 2 children. And zere isa policy, only one guest. So she had to choose vich child to take into zelounge while ze ozzer child was left viss us downstairs.’

I was aghast! ‘Sophies’ Choice’! What is wrongwith you Germans? What would it have hurt to let her in with both children?Make an exception to Ze Rules! But I didn’t say anything. What for?

I’m happy to say the Luxx lounge was indeed, verynice. And the showers were great! And all the walking was good exercise too.

Another pleasant memory of Frankfurt Flughaffen. Ican’t say it makes me want to actually visit Frankfurt though. Ben-GurionAirport never looked so good.

PALEO-SHMALEO

A friend of mine (Hi, Dennis!) raves about the Paleo diet; for the uninformed, this is short for Paleolithic diet, ie a diet similar to what cave men ate before some fool started tilling the soil, domesticating animals and inventing agriculture, some 5,000 years ago. The premise is that we in the affluent Western world are fat and sick because we eat grains and dairy foods, among other things. People on this diet lose weight while eating a lot of meat, fish, eggs, veggies, nuts and berries. They lose weight, they feel good, they fix up their blood pressure and diabetes. (You’re supposed to exercise too; the cave man was not a sedentary fellow.)  So pish-tosh to bread, the biblical ‘staff of life’, and never mind the billions of folks who eat rice and pita and chapattis.

I confess I haven’t read the book, nor do I know any cave men (hmm, maybe I do…) but I have the gist of it. It might be ‘the best diet in the world’ as the website claims, but there are a lot of dietitians who disagree. In fact they all disagree.

But I’ll tell you what I do know; we eat too much. We eat too much processed foods. We sit on our butts a lot. We drive our cars everywhere instead of walking. We are indeed, too fat.

I’ll tell you what else I know; there are 1,000 diets out there and some of them are stupid. Also: losing weight is really REALLY hard, and keeping it off is harder.

Apparently recent research has shown that when weight is lost (and by weight I mean 10% of body weight, so 10kg if you are a zaftig 100kg), the body has a sort of emergency panic ‘Help! I’m starving!’ reaction which does NOT go away. And the more you lose, the stronger the reaction, at a hormonal level. There are grehlins (‘hunger hormones’) and leptins (‘satiety hormones’) and the grehlins go up and the leptins go down. So the dieter is plagued by hunger, cravings, and preoccupation with food until s/he can’t take it any more and the intake goes up and the weight goes up with it.

To those of us failed dieters, me included +++++, this at least gets us off the self-loathing hook. We all know that diets don’t work; now we know why. It isn’t our weakness and gluttony and lack of will power; it is our own body panicking and trying very hard to stay fat.

It’s also very bad news, as if we didn’t know, that given our Western lifestyles, once we are fat, we only are going to stay fat. And that might be sort of OK when we are young and sassy, but when we are over 40 or 50, the body starts complaining about it.  And then comes the diabetes, the arthritis, the high blood pressure, the heart disease etc.

I still say that the single worst thing you can do your health is to smoke, no doubt. But being more than 15kgs overweight is not much better.

So in my lifetime, a lifetime of struggle with obesity, this is what I have done in order to find some semblance of control over my tendency to be a fatty boomba:

Age 3 Mum didn’t give me any lollies because I was chubby. So was she.

Age 6-12 did ballet until I got too heavy.

Age 13 GP put me on Duromine. Didn’t help. I left out 10 years of angst at school, being teased.

Age 15, at 95kg, joined Weight Watchers, at that time a low carb portion control diet. I was the youngest member in Australia. I did OK. Lost 25kg. Struggled to maintain.

At uni, ran, swam, did karate and rejoined WW lots of times.

Tried Israeli Army Diet (hahaha! The IDF knew nothing of this.). Tried Dr Atkins. Lost weight, got bad breath. Couldn’t stay off carbs. Atkins + carbs = Fatkins.

Went vegetarian for 6 months. Gained 10kgs. Too much carb, not enough protein.

Age 24, got married, before which I starved at a fat farm for a week to be a size 12 which some people still think is fat.

Age 25 to 36- had 7 kids. ‘Nuff said.

After rejoining WW the 12^th time, I realized it wasn’t going to get me anywhere I hadn’t been. Went to Shondra Hill, who did the same thing but was a motivator. It helped. But then my mum died and I had my 5^th child, and I couldn’t keep it off. Food as substance to be abused.

Went to Jenny Craig. Laughed at the pretentiousness.

Tried Body Trust, the No-diet diet. Surprise! Didn't help.

Went to hypnotherapy. Didn’t help.

Learned about Optifast. Refused to go on it as it sounded insane and was very expensive. Wrote an opinion piece/expose in the Jewish News. Nearly got sued by Optifast doctor.

Went to a certain diet doctor until the humiliation was too much.

Went to acupuncturist, kinesiologist, chiropractor, psychologist, dietitian. Meh. I’m leaving out some stuff, too boring.

Meanwhile had personal trainer. Kept food and training log. Gave up carbs. Lost 15kgs. Couldn’t stay off carbs. Gained 20kgs. (I think there's a pattern here...)

Had cardiac arrythmia. Got scared. Had lapband. Lost 30kgs. Never looked back, although it’s not perfect by any means. I’m easily still 15kg too heavy.

Can you imagine how much time, money and effort I have spent on this? And it’s not over, it’s never over. I just try to do my best. Eat less, exercise more. Drink water.

So will I try the Paleo? Nope. But good luck to all you cave folks out there! If you can find food as pure and untainted as our ancestors had, lucky you! Just remember that the average cave man only lived to about 35. And walked everywhere.