living on the front page by Andrea Simontov     take a tip from me!

I finally figured out why many Jews make aliyah: Free Advice.

Whether solicited or ‘un,’ Israelis freely dispense life-tips and counsel, regardless of whether or not they’ve earned correlated diplomas or held internships in related topics. The shuk, for example, is where the savvy among us go to glean the hottest data on cancer cures and tough-love techniques for recalcitrant children. As a warm-up to fish-monger advice sessions, it is my humble suggestion that one ride in a taxi cab: your driver is certain to have many answers for your unasked questions like, “Am I dressed too warm for the weather?” or “Isn’t Ehud Olmert/George Bush/Sadaam Hussein/my father-in-law an idiot?”

I recently banded together with a group of girth-conscious girlfriends in order to support one another on the road to fitness, health and, hopefully, single-digit dress sizes. Agreeing that we’d weigh ourselves at home and merely report our achieved losses, I purchased a scale and weighed myself for the first time in eleven years. Imagine my shock when I discovered the new, two-hundred shekel appliance was broken! It was about thirty pounds ‘overweight.’ Promising to return it to the pharmacy for a full refund, I raced to my neighbor’s home only to discover that her scale, too, was defective. Words cannot describe the dismay I felt when a third resident of my building was found to possess a malfunctioning unit.

Following the program to the letter, I couldn’t be more than eleven yards from the nearest restroom. Although this made family picnics a tad more difficult, I got my home organized as well as color -oding the sock drawers. Needing to tone-up, I plowed through endless suggestions from friends, strangers, cleaning ladies and an obese florist whom I met at the hardware store. Pilates; step aerobics; roller blades, walking in the Jerusalem Hills. Finally I settled for my favorite: bicycle riding. Of course, I got much advice at the repair shop while having breaks tightened, wheels aligned and basket made more secure.

Each morning for a month I exited my building at exactly 5:45 a.m. Merrily I peddled a not-too-strenuous route, zooming past quick-stepping men on their way to morning prayers. Feeling like a young girl, I experienced creative juices stirring within me. I thought lovingly of my children, layers of trepidation falling away with each turn of the wheel. In only one month, this ride became an obsession, feeding a gaping need within me.

Until I fell.

Does it really matter how it happened? Not to me it doesn’t. I did learn that a fifty-year-old woman who rides a bike at 5:45 in the morning should wear a helmet. This same woman should carry a cell phone in case she’s badly injured. If she isn’t hurt, she should laugh and climb back onto the bike.

After reporting the incident, did anyone I know utter “tsk, tsk” and move on? Is this or isn’t this a Jewish country?

“Who rides a bicycle at your age? You’re lucky you weren’t killed!”

“You should have had a ‘riding-buddy,’ preferably someone with a CPR certificate and triage training.”

“Jerusalem is too hilly. Not rider friendly. Now bowling – there’s a sport!”

Which brings us to swimming.

When I wasn’t looking, my daughters burned my only bathing suit. This may have had something to do with the neon-green color and the fact that there were no cups in which to offer the proper support. (They thought I was joking when I told them I’d buy a new suit when I could find one with bra-cups at waist level – where they belong.) Anyway, on a birthday trip to the Dead Sea, I grabbed a few discounted suits from the sales rack and skipped off to make a quick decision.

The fitting room wasn’t soundproof and my shrieks were heard in Jordan. It seems that just as I hadn’t weighed myself in eleven years, I hadn’t looked at myself from the neck down in that same period of time.

Listen to Dr. Phil if you must and consult your local rabbi if you want to keep up appearances. But if your marriage is falling apart or your only son and scion to the family fortune is about to become a Hari Krishna, run – DON’T walk – to your nearest Israeli falafel stand and pour out your heart. The disseminated advice may not be applicable but it will be given over in the spirit of loving one’s fellow man.

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