As if

You trust in the abundance and goodness of the universe...You're an optimist. You brush away a tear so it doesn't smudge your makeup and you move on! Of course, that is not how you really feel. This is how you pretend you feel until it feels real. You act as if! --Rule #1: Be a Creature Unlike Any Other

On Purim you're supposed to get so drunk that you can't tell Mordechai from Haman. The obvious symbolism here is that Mordechai = good and Haman = evil. To a lawyer, this immediately conjures up first year criminal law. Unable to tell the difference between right and wrong means you can't be held responsible for the crime you committed. Of course, most states specifically don't allow you to use voluntary intoxication as the reason you were unable to tell the difference between good and evil. But you get the point.

At Friday night Shabbat dinner the rabbi explained that the concept behind this requirement is introspection, reflection, dialing down your brain until you get to a higher level of perspective. You drink to go beyond the rational part of your brain so that you begin to confuse the good with the evil forces in your life, in the hope that you will come closer to sorting it out. I am perhaps adding my own spin onto what the rabbi said because I really identified with this and I hadn't really heard it quite this way before.

The rabbi also explained that in terms of amount, you are meant to drink as much as it takes you to "fall asleep from drunkenness." I would assume this means something short of "black out in the parking lot," but you can never be sure.

Let us rewind for a moment. Almost exactly two months ago my 2.5 year relationship ended abruptly. I have not seen or communicated with him since. I know from the unfortunate technological advance of facebook RSVP lists that I've listed myself as a "maybe" on Jewish events that he's been to, and vice versa. But never did our paths actually cross before yesterday.

I received a facebook invitation for a Jewish organization's Purim party, one I have attended in past years. He was listed as going. I had pretty much decided not to go; there were multiple other parties/Megillah readings going on that night, so why pick this one where awkwardness was a certainty? Then at Shabbat dinner a few of my new friends asked me to go. They also told me the theme of the party -- one that would allow me to buy and wear this neon-colored wig I have wanted an excuse to own for a really long time.

The desire to put off this unpleasantness was gradually outweighed by the thought of wearing a blue wig when I saw him for the first time. Per the rabbi, we wear masks on Purim not to hide ourselves, but to reveal our inner selves, at least to ourselves. A bright funky wig is not quite a mask, but looking drastically different from myself on this night seemed fitting. I'd be effectively in disguise, my most noticeable feature hidden, unrecognizable from a distance.

So I went. In a minidress and an electric blue bob.

Party #1: +2 alcoholic beverages

My M.O. at this party: approach people I already knew and talk to them, acting like I was a social butterfly having a great time. For the most part, this was genuine, I was having fun even though I had a constant pit in my stomach as soon as I happened to see him walk in (no eye contact, and I looked immediately away). My blue wig made me feel on stage through my queasiness, and made it much easier to "act as if."

I realize that being so overtly outgoing is somewhat in conflict with The Rules, but I concentrated my efforts on women and did not approach or begin conversations with men I did not know (or knew only minimally). I did unabashedly initiate conversations with the guy friends I knew well, but to the extent this was bending the Rules I excused it because of the unique difficulties this night presented. I tried very hard to minimize the looking around, and During the Megillah reading I pretty much managed not to look around at all.

Immediately after the Megillah reading I had to leave the party to go to another party. He had not approached me, and I was pretty sure the Rules would disapprove of me approaching him. The Rules are not entirely clear on this point, because if I'm not interested in reconciliation technically I wouldn't have to Rules him anyway; if I am interested in reconciliation the Rules allow for one light and breezy phone call when you know he's not going to answer his phone.

Calling when he's not in is crucial; you don't want to make him uncomfortable if he doesn't want to hear from you or is involved with someone else or even married. Leaving a message also allows him to call you if and when he wants to, which is the best start for any conversation between you. Your message gives him time to think and the option of not calling, which you must give him.

How this is possible in the age of cell phones I'm not sure. Leave a message at his work number on a Sunday? That seems bizarre.

In any case, this is mostly dicta because I am not in a position where I want him back. I admit I have my moments of wistfulness, but if he suddenly wanted to start over I can't say right now that I would be up for that. I have never seriously considered attempting the "one call for closure."

However, in leaving the party I recalled this rule and had my reasons for wanting to apply it by analogy in order to permit myself to initiate a conversation with him. Mainly, it was the feeling that if I left a party where we were both unequivocally aware of each other's presence without having interacted with him, it would cement a status quo of awkwardness and avoidance. As horrible as it feels to be at single events with him or even to imagine that scenario, I do not want that result.

After getting my coat, I strode back into the party room and looked demurely around the room for him. I spotted him quickly, with his friend (whom I run into much more often). I walked over, smiled, and looked at each of them in turn. I said "hi," directed at them both. In my brain, the next sentence was "okay, let's cut this bullshit. We need to be able to interact with each other." But the Rules restrained me from breaking character.

"How are you?" he said, with some undecipherable but meaningful expression in his eyes. Seeing him look at me that way and speaking to him like an acquaintance pained me, but my smile remained steadfast. "Good!" I said breezily. Looking again at the friend and addressing them both, I said "Well, I have to go to another party, but I didn't know if you guys would still be here when I got back, so I wanted to say hi."

The friend asked me where the party was, I told him, he said that was far, I said yes. Then I said to both of them, "it was good to see you guys," and left acting "as if" I was perfectly content with myself and the world and his presence in it.

Party #2: +1 alcoholic beverage

Driving to my next stop that evening, I felt a major adrenaline rush. I was high on courage. I was drunk on my own strength contrasted with what I perceived as affirmation of his weakness. I went to party #2 and reveled in my friends' positive reaction to my outfit.

As the night wore on, the initial euphoria wore off and I began to miss him. I wished that seeing me would trigger in him a desire to contact me, to talk to me, to be with me. I ached thinking of the sudden and total loss that had befallen us two months before, feeling like it was yesterday.

Party #3: +2 alcoholic beverages

Even then I forged on acting "as if." Instead of going home and crumbling, I tried to go back to the first party. It had already ended, so I bugged a few friends to go to my favorite dance club with me. My heart wasn't exactly in it, but I kept on going. In my thoughts, painful memories and inclinations towards regret intertwined with a profound appreciation for the friends who came out with me, the friend I voicemail-spammed in between the two parties, my family.

At 107 pounds, I'm not quite sure how I put away 5 drinks on Purim and didn't get what I would call drunk. "Boy, you can hold your liquor," my friend said at 3:10 AM when I drove him home. Yet I did feel a heaviness in my head as I entered my apartment. I quickly drifted off upon laying down, perhaps achieving the "drink until you sleep" mitzvah.

I dreamed about the party: he and I were standing back to back, each talking to other people. We occasionally touched by accident, and he turned around and spoke my home address as if he wanted to go there. I asked him why. He responded in a way that confirmed that he did not want to get back together.

The day after: +0 alcoholic beverages

I woke up too early, mildly traumatized by the dream. I mentally rejected the great life I have been building for these past two months, and instead submerged myself in wrenching disbelief that the upshot of all my blue-wigged fearlessness the night before amounted to a mere two-minute cameo. I missed him. I missed our relationship with all its problems. I sent my inconveniently abroad best friend a novella of an e-mail. Then, I put on a sweater dress, makeup, and a smile, and went to brunch with my best girlfriends, once again laughing, recounting stories, and acting "as if."

In the afternoon I went to visit a friend and her baby. At the end of a very pleasant conversation, she asked me how I was doing with the breakup, a question I would have answered "great" to a few days before. I was surprised at the tears that spilled out, but let them come. In that safe space, I purged myself of the weight bearing down on the shaky foundation propping up my bold, confident armor. Then, I stood up, hugged my friend, and went to meet some others to speak the foreign language I studied in college. I acted flawlessly "as if."

Weary at the end of my Purim day, my stirred-up emotions turned into questions. Did I unmask my true inner strength when I advanced, determined, towards being the bigger person? Or did my rekindled backward glances reveal an inability to overcome?

Am I furious and bitter at a Haman who hurt me or longing for a Mordechai who does not exist?

Draining as it was, acting "as if" each time faded into feeling "as if." Resolution of these inner conflicts does not occur overnight, but I daresay I am a rung higher on the ladder of self, where "as if" is unnecessary at the top.