If not for my coffee, Yosef would wonder why I didn’t also ask for money. But the charade had to stop
Place: Coffee station in shul.
Time: 5:30 a.m.
Mood: Tired, drained.
The man was fundraising and arrived before the first of the minyanim. He spoke Hebrew with a Sephardic accent.
“My name is Yosef, and I’m collecting for my daughter’s chatunah. What are you collecting for?”
It’s not the first and probably not the last I’ve been taken for a member of the holy group of collectors, and I’m actually honored to be considered part of this revered group.
Before I could correct his mistaken assumption, however, he continued.
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