Busybody

My mother-in-law is tall and big boned, with broad shoulders. Looking at her, I’ve always thought that if I threw a rope or two around this green-and-blue globe we live on and hung it over her arms, she’d take one heave and pull it right along after her, without even letting go of her pocketbook.

I’m not like that. It’s not just that I’m petite and slim and my shoulders look like they belong to a 12-year-old. It’s that I wasn’t made for pulling weights. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I had leukemia as a young teen; extended chemotherapy left its mark on my system. Maybe that’s just who I am — I tire easily, my stamina is short lived. And it doesn’t bother me; I’m happy to quietly make my way through life without heroics or dramatics.

I certainly didn’t want to use my precious energy agonizing over my lack of ambition: I try to simply accept it as a piece of myself, and live accordingly. When I was in shidduchim, I knew I didn’t have the physical strength to do the work-plus-run-house thing that comes along with marrying a learner, so I looked for a solid ben Torah who was in the working world. It took a few years — at 21 or 22, most solid boys are still intent on learning. By the time they reach 24, it’s easier to find a good boy who has left yeshivah. I also had to find someone willing to overlook the fear engendered by my medical file, and instead accept the clean bill of health my doctors now gave me.

Baruch Hashem, I found Levi, the youngest of six. He had just become a CPA and we settled down happily. Although my parents don’t have money, they offered to pay for cleaning help twice a week. “I’m paying to save your energy,” my mother told me, and we accepted their offer.