Everyone was wearing Crocs at the seder2022-04-16 zebulon
Well, not literally everyone. But certainly more than half. This was going to be my first year not doing a single thing to honor Passover. I mentioned this to Dina on Thursday night who, like many others, found this blasphemous and extended an invite to her sister's seder. Dina's sister is really bubbly and fashionable and witty and she complimented my hair a lot. She's also Hasidic and a mother of five rowdy children who attend school in Yiddish. I was always under the impression that there are four sons: the wise one, the wicked one, the simple one, and the one who doesn't know how to ask questions. Last night I learned that in addition to the aforementioned four, there is a fifth son that straight up never showed up. I've been working on showing up more. Not only are there five sons, but there are also five daughters: Who, What, Where, When, and Why (WWWWW), cousins of Parentheses, Exponents, Multiplication, Division, Addition, and Subtraction (PEMDAS), another recurring theme in my life. The Squeakquel. The SQL. Sometimes I ponder the five daughters before I show up. It's bad to think about too often but once in a while is fine. Everything in moderation, including moderation. At its core, showing up is a vibe. On the surface? Merely a gerund. I show up to things because it will be a funny story later; there is food involved; I will feel relief afterwards; my friends will be there; my crush will be there; I will get to dance. I embrace my inner fuck-it-why-not, mother in law of Hot Girl Summer. I suffer from main character syndrome. I am my own inside joke. My favorite part of Passover is the song that you get to sing at the very end of the seder where you count from one to thirteen. This makes a lot more sense if you know the song. IYKYK. You had to be there! The song reminds me of my dad because he sings it very loudly and confidently each year. I caught myself feeling nostalgic during the song last night and that upset me because I am trying to save up my sentimentality for when the next tragic event occurs. These are things I think about as the youngest member of a nuclear family of six. I was forced to ask the Four Questions all the way through college as I was still the youngest person in the room. It's weird how some traumatic events make me remember more (e.g. a loved one's death) and others make me remember less (e.g. a psychotic episode). You know how at the end of a rave you can reliably find those couple of club kids bumbling about the dance floor after everyone else has already come down? That's what the end of a seder looks like at 2:30am. The night has gone through its full arc: the anticipation, the powerful beginning, the pedantic rituals, the climax of the meal and the slow crash that follows when you realize the seder continues after everyone has finished eating. I was a club kid last night. Five sons and five daughters. Eight nights. Ten plagues. Four glasses of wine. Six hours of Passover programming. I got Crocs last week but didn't wear them to Passover. I never got the memo.