The gym was full this morning

(Writer’s note: This article was written and published prior to the horrific executions of six hostages by Hamas.)  

I dragged myself to the car, a half-hearted shlep that indicated something about integrity.  Groan.

My blood test indicated that I’m relatively alright.  In her typical, no-frills fashion, my doctor intoned,  “Lose weight and get to the gym.”  Thus, tightly encased in bell-bottomed leggings and an Honor the Blue tee-shirt with a regulation, hipster hacked-off color, I attended for the third agonizing morning in a row.

What my doctor didn’t mention during the checkup were the elephants in every room in Israel: The War and the Iranian threat to annihilate us at some indiscriminate time in a nebulous near future.  It is evident that the doctor is tense.  I am tense.  My husband is tense.   We are all candidates for Oscars as we parent and laugh with our children and grandchildren, trying not to traumatize them any further than osmosis will permit.  The summer temperatures hover at 34° centigrade (93°F) on most days, and treating the kiddies to a water activity or day on the beach is required.

My pantry is stocked with canned black beans and garbanzos and we have enough water for three days.  Over coffee, my husband and I debate whether or not we really need a transistor radio and do such things even exist anymore?  We both grow pensive and mildly angry: How dare they do this to us.  They practice a form of psychological terrorism that we hope is more successful than their military prowess.  Both stink but we feel exposed, nakedly Jewish as we celebrate life and assay to heal and bring good to the community of man.  How did it come to this, that we are so hated by a poisonous behemoth that is doggedly determined to wipe us off of the map?  A monstrous regime that spreads its tentacles into every corner of the world with messages of martyrdom, supremacy and domination?

Channeling my inner-Golde – wife of Tevye-the-Milkman – I do not want to leave crusty dishes in the sink before going to bed, lest I’m charged by the enemy of having a dirty house.  But Jerusalem is not Anetevka and I try to get to bed on time, knowing that I’ll need some rest when the sirens go off.  The biggest dilemmas I face after brushing my teeth is, which pajamas shall I wear and must I wear a bra to bed?  What is bomb-shelter etiquette, after all?  How good must I look?  

My friend, Leah, posted a video of her precious son along with hundreds of other young men at the induction center at Tel HaShomer, duffel-bags and knap-sacks forming a carpet of khaki-green.   To the amazement of teary-eyed parents, these holy heroes broke into spontaneous song and dance, expressing great honor in defending our God-given land and protecting our people.  

My reservist-son has returned to the fight.  Which border?  I don’t know and the generals aren’t telling me.  He informed us of having been called up again while sitting at shabbat dinner.  I smiled, uttered a lame joke and served tea.  Trepidation wears a cloak.

No other war in the history of war has been under such scrutiny.  My friend Kathy says, “I can’t begin to understand how you must be feeling.”  This is the most compassionate sentiment that anyone can make to an Israeli today.

Last Friday, in the hours leading to Shabbos, families were on the beach, catching some sun, some waves, some normalcy before returning home in time for candle lighting.  We weren’t hunkering in safe-rooms but did, just to be safe, set our phones to the Home Command app.  

The gym was full this morning and I was there.  Because life goes on and my doctor says I’m lethargic, fat, and need to take better care of myself.

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(Reprinted with permission of San Diego Jewish Journal, September 1, 2024)