Yes, I wrote about how to get some shmearing done during the High Holy days. However, one category I didn’t delve into was bromances.
For those three people living under a rock, a bromance is a platonic romance between two heterosexual males. Why there needs to be a word for that, instead of just friendship, I think is unnecessary, but I don’t make the rules. I wanted to bring to light a special Rosh Hashanah bromance, whose anniversary is one year ago this week.
Thank you to the FFJD fan who contributed this, I am retelling it in my own words.
So I was at the DC JCC for Rosh Hashanah services, scouting out some chicks. Two rows ahead was a girl I went to high school with, who has long since forgotten about my dorky phase, that incident at Prom, and had four years at Syracuse where she morphed into a hot girl with a mild substance abuse problem. About a row behind is an ex-hookup, who isn’t looking so bad in her ugly long skirt and cardigan. I can’t tell if she’s sitting with her new hookup, (the friend of Rachel’s who was controversial because he and Rachel used to shmear) her brother, or a boy who she’s sort of dating but is still hunting around.
Either way, I’m glad I have options.
Sitting next to me is another dude, scanning the crowd equally fervently for girls whose faces say “I’m hot but I don’t want any commitment because I’m a little kooky but that can be reinterpreted as sexy.” Their outfits say, “My skirt suit only sort of fits because I normally dress like a floozy.” Bingo.
My Shalom Safari mate and I begin talking. I notice his icy blue eyes and loud laugh. As we sit through the next two hours on our Shofar Sojourn we get to know each other – what kind of game console each of us owns, our favorite female asset – mine breasts, his bottoms – our favorite sandwich that we’re craving when freed from the iron grip of synagogue. We oggle at the girl in the next row over, whose third button has come undone. Purple bra.
I call dibbs.
As the service comes to a close, he asks me for my number. Sure man, I say. He says he’s new in town. He has picked the right shmoozer to show him the ropes.
The following week he texts me to continue in our Butts Falling Asleep Because These Benches are Uncomfortable Jewish Extravaganza. I am excited. I’ve missed those baby blues and sexual innuendos involving Sara Rosen.
We walk in together, scouting out the best potential spot to quietly discuss our failed attempts over the weekend – mine with Purple Bra, and his with Liz Who Has A Mental Balance Issue.
We comiserate in our hunger and dream of corned beef. As we walk out into the cool September air, I am struck by two men I saw years ago, with the same combination of raw talent and sheer beauty as we do. Just like Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, I think to myself. And we can take on the world.
One year, many bagels, boobs, and brunches later, we did.
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