The eight nights of Hanukkah, dateline 5786
How fast the Earth spins! How quickly children grow! How furiously the cold wind blows during this chilly and dark month of Kislev. In other words, it’s time to ramp up my annual what-I-want-the-Hanukkah-Man-to-Bring-Me list.
Newsflash. There really is a Hanukkah Man. He is my father. And every year, he bestows on his many, many children, children-in-law, grandchildren, grandchildren-in-law, and great-grandchildren all kinds of Hanukkah swag. However, what follows is not for my father but rather, for those in my inner circle, such as my husband, my children, and God.
For the first night of Hanukkah, I humbly request that I be restored to my previous daunting height of five feet and four inches. I have, in fact, been five feet and four inches tall since about 1973, when I stopped growing, and have been telling medical professionals and others who might need to know my height that I’m five feet and four inches tall ever since. Until, that is, yesterday, when I went to one of my seemingly endless doctor appointments only to be measured, sans shoes, whereupon I learned that I am now five feet and three and a half inches tall. When I protested, I was told that for my age, a loss of a half an inch is nothing to stress over. Which brings me to my next request.
For the second night of Hanukkah, I’d like people to stop saying “For your age …..” “For your age, you have a lot of energy.” “For your age, you don’t have that many wrinkles.” “For your age, you don’t smell that bad.” I made up that last one. But it all boils down to the same message, namely, that though I am well and inevitably on my way to decrepitude, I can put off finding a senior center/elder care provider/assisted living facility for a while yet. I hope. Or not. Who knows? I could be hit by a bus tomorrow.
Third night: Recently, our eldest son Sam, his wife Dara, and their little boy Joey spent the weekend with us. I corralled Sam into helping me rake and bag the leaves that seemingly never stop falling from the large Oak tree in our front yard. We live in New Jersey. They don’t call it the Garden State for nothing. Anyway, there we are, mother and grown son working side by side in the bright blue cold of an early December afternoon, when he turned to me and said, “Mom, you’re pretty spry for a person of your age.” Thus, I ask for all those seeking to give me a compliment to ditch the word “spry” and think of substituting one of the following: “Amazing.” “Fabulous.” “Gorgeous.” “Drop dead gorgeous.” “Kill me now, I hate you because you’re so drop-dead gorgeous and brilliant in every way.”
Fourth night: I would like to enjoy a non-medical diminishment of my appetite. Not that I’m heavy. Due solely to my genes, I’ve never been heavy. But I tend to eat too much and get indigestion and go around sucking my belly in even though it doesn’t help. For crying out loud, I eat approximately as much, and approximately as quickly, as your average 12-year-old boy. I know because my own boys were once twelve and, when we engaged in eating contests, I usually won. True story: once when we took our kids to Holsten’s—which if you don’t know it is a beloved local hamburger and ice cream joint where they filmed the last scene of the last episode of “The Sopranos” — and our boys had an eating contest that consisted of super-large ice cream sundaes covered with French fries covered with ketchup. I won. Suffice to say it’s not a good look.
Fifth night: Duh: the face. Or as my daughter Rose puts it: “Mom, you complain about your face getting older all the time, but you don’t want to do Botox, let alone something more permanent. So could you please get a life and stop bitching to me about this? It’s not like you’re thirty.” The point is: isn’t it time for some smart Jewish Israeli start-up nation type to invent some substance or pill that will restore my facial appearance to what it was in 1990?
Sixth night: There seems to be a theme here, the theme of Jennifer is No Longer In Her Earliest Dewy Youth. But was I ever? The answer, it appears from photographic evidence, is yes. When everything worked, and I never questioned the reliability of my body to obey orders from central command. So here’s an easy one: please no more replacement of body parts. The first hip replacement was a nightmare. The second was also a nightmare. And sure, thank You God, I’m not in a wheelchair and can in fact go hiking if I wanted to, which I don’t, because hiking involves major exertion and walking the dogs is enough exercise for me. But if my knees go, I may have to become addicted to painkillers.
Seventh night: By now, on the penultimate night of Hanukkah, my husband and I are usually on the dregs tail-end of present-giving, swapping such non-starters as socks or, perhaps, a jar of homemade jam. So this year I’d like to see enacted a ban on playing music so loudly that I can hear it from my house. Especially bad pop music, which is almost all pop music, with exceptions for Stevie Wonder, Pharrell Williams, and the late great Aretha Franklin.
Eighth night: In addition to a real and lasting peace in the Middle East and a cessation of the cruelty, corruption, and chaos emanating from the White House, I’d be most grateful if the Hanukkah Man might bring me a really warm pair of fleece-lined mittens.