Like a Prayer*

One of my best friends and I recently had a discussion about how we don't really do casual friendships any more – that we crave connection, not just people to pass the time.

For someone who has spent much of her life with about two feelings (starving or stuffed, because "fat" is not actually a feeling), the honesty required for connection still makes me feel like I'm on a rollercoaster, just before the dizzying plunge. But as I've discovered – mostly from writing about weight and bingeing – most of the time the results are surprisingly wonderful.

This morning at a meeting I was attending I happened to mention my guilt about being there on a Jewish holiday. I was feeling especially so because of a memory that bubbled to the surface – something I'd somehow allowed myself to forget: That I did not speak to my grandmother the weekend she died -- because I'd binged so badly at Thanksgiving dinner that I was too full and exhausted to do anything but lie on my sister's sofa. The next day I struggled to get through the day, then binged again. Grandma died on Saturday.

At the end of the meeting I went to give an acquaintance a jacket – she'd admired mine the week before and I happened to have a spare one that I'd been sent in my days as an editor. I'd decided – much as I love this jacket (it folds up to be a travel pillow!), and much as it's my instinct to hoard – that I didn't need two.

A woman I knew only slightly was hovering. "I'm actually going to synagogue right now – it's right around the corner," she finally said quietly to me. "I'd love some company."

"Like this?" I said, indicating my sweaty workout clothes.

She shrugged. "It's a progressive synagogue in the West Village," she said. "Believe me, no one will care."

In fact, everyone was dressed up. (The woman in front of me had fabulous Louboutins.) But honestly, I didn't care. Growing up the High Holidays – as Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are known – essentially were the start of the Jewish social season. Usually you wore new clothes, and if the holiday fell too early in September, most women – particularly single women on the lookout -- would risk roasting just to wear autumn clothes.

I am here for the services, I thought. And it was liberating. (Though one of the rabbis was distracting adorable and referred to the OED, then explained: Oxford English Dictionary. Swoon. He was also about 25 years old.)

I haven't been to synagogue in about eight years, and I went only sporadically before then. Still the prayers and the rhythms – Adorable Underage Rabbi played guitar – came back to me. I used a spare bandanna in my gym bag to mop away tears I couldn't seem to stop from falling. Then – as if someone knew why I was there – Yizkor (the special Yom Kippur memorial service) was held right after the morning service. Usually it is at 5 or 6 pm. The rabbis read the names of everyone the synagogue members were remembering, and I silently added my mother, grandmother, uncle, and grandfather.

As I left the school auditorium -- yes, it's a synagogue without an actual home -- I felt lighter.

During the service I'd received a text from the acquaintance thanking me again for the jacket and saying she didn't know what to say.

I did. I texted back: "As my grandmother would say, 'Wear it in good health'"

*No, this isn't going to be a religion blog. Regular programming will resume promptly!