I can’t tell you how uncomfortable it is to walk into a Starbucks on the Upper West Side and come face to face with the guy I’ve literally been avoiding since our souls met at Har Sinai.
I mean, out of all of the Jewish people from every single generation since the inception of our people to the end of time who gathered for the giving of the Torah, my neshama had to be standing next to Jacob Harrison Goldblatt? And then, 3000-some-odd years later, out of all the coffee shops in Manhattan – not to mention the rest of the world – he had to be in mine? It’s frankly upsetting.
To be fair, I knew he was in the city. I’d seen him tagged in some Facebook event invites, but I always came up with a reason to skip those. I don’t specifically remember meeting him, of course, but as soon as I saw his name on the registration list for an NCSY convention in middle school, my neshama automatically knew something was wrong. My guess is just that we didn’t really get along at the foot of the mountain. From what I can tell about him, he was probably high at Zman Matan Torateinu and my soul just wasn’t able to be moved by the sounds of the Shofar or the voice of Hashem because he was blasting Lil Yachty so loud I could hear it through his AirPods.
So I’ve been avoiding him these last couple thousand years. And I cannot express my disgust at being forced to look him in the eyes in the door of this Starbucks, as he stares for a second, and says, “Hey, you’re Becky, right? Leah’s friend?”
Listen Jakey-boy, my name is Becca, and you knew that. Don’t pretend you don’t recognize me. Our neshamas met at Har Sinai, and that’s not something you fucking forget.