“Are you going to go to Rosh Hashanah services?” my sister asked me on the phone last week, and my gut instantly churned. Not because I’m now separated by the Atlantic Ocean from my family on the Jewish New Year, but because: a.) I had forgotten about it and b.) I didn’t feel like dealing with it.
“It’s tomorrow? And what year is it in Jewish anyhow? 18 million or something? I didn’t really make any arrangements. Maybe I’ll just fake going to services so mom and dad don’t freak.”
“I know you’re not religious, but aren’t you at least afraid of the wrath of mom?”
“I’ll repent for it a week later on Yom Kippur.”
Every year, when Yom Kippur, the day of repentance rolls around, I reluctantly put on a conservative pencil skirt, pack into the family Subaru, and fast for a day. At least I’ll lose a little weight, I think. Because why would I need to repent? I’m a good person. I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t seriously offended any of my friends or family. I eat my vegetables. I even vacuumed under the bed. Once. Keep reading »