Most of the time, I forget that I was once married. It happened so long ago: That faraway, dreamy period in my mid-20s lasted just a year and a half, and it's been over seven years – seven crucial, growing years – since we made the decision to divorce. I feel almost as if it happened to a different person – a very young, naïve person who believed that “everything would work out,” despite the vast differences in personalities and philosophies that I recognized (but refused to see) before we even got engaged. Moreover, since we made the break on a clean slate – no kids, thank God! – and a few of my relationships have been so strong that they are top of mind, my ex-husband and the life we led for a short time seem like a figment of my childish imagination. However, as much as I almost feel I've forgotten about my divorce and moved on – albeit with valuable life experience – my divorce hasn't forgotten me. This is never more apparent than when I'm dating and haven't done my due diligence, and – surprise! – I discover the guy I'm thinking of going out with – or, more sadly, have already gone out with – is a kohen, and therefore verboten. In fact, it happened just last week – reminding me, once again, that while I ever-so-casually made the decision to get married, I can never take a guy at face value (without checking his priestly stats) again. It was so frustrating. After a short dating break that felt refreshing but endless – encompassing my annual Passover trip to New York and a few weeks of acclimation after my return to Jerusalem – I felt eager to get out there. Throwing myself into activities, I met Idan at a Friday night dinner on an acquaintance's roof. The Shabbat timer on the lights had failed, and with all of us enveloped by the dark, yet enjoying the view of Mamilla and its environs, the night felt somehow magical. I complimented Idan on his kiddush-making abilities, and we chatted on the way home in a group. He was nice-looking, had spent time in the States, and seemed hardworking and sensitive. I was almost positive I detected the glint of interest in his eyes. Lo and behold, that Sunday, I got a Facebook friend request, quickly followed by an IM assessing my interest (affirmative). We made a date for a few days later, WhatsApping frequently in between – silly hellos and kooky pictures of dogs wearing glasses (always the way to my heart). “This dude is cool!” I thought. He picked me up and, in a feat of pre-planning, took me to a charming café just outside Jerusalem with a babbling brook. All was going swimmingly, he looked much cuter than I remembered, and he complimented me, ordering glasses of wine – wine! I didn't even have to hint – when he happened to mention attending the Birkat Kohanim service at the Western Wall and then offhandedly said he was a kohen. My heart sank. He was off-limits. Bye-bye, promising date. As I sat there with a frozen smile, nodding in all the right places and Idan none the wiser, I felt an instant of self-recrimination. Why hadn't I thought to ask him if he was a kohen? Simple, I answered myself, I didn't want to make things awkward and ruin the easy feeling between us by just coming right out with my divorced status immediately. I guess I could have asked a guy friend if he knew him and what his story was, I thought. But our date had happened so fast, was my rejoinder. Either way, facts were facts – and I had to inform Idan. I did, and his face fell. “Story of my life,” he said resignedly. If that was the case, why didn't he ask me if I was divorced? I wondered. It didn't matter. I felt bad for him – as well as for me, obviously – and the situation sucked. We continued to eat and talk, ruefully acknowledging that we couldn't continue (“I really like you. Are you sure you are divorced?” he half-joked. “Could you check?”) but enjoying each other's company for a little longer. All the while, what I felt was a sense of annoyance at the situation – and at God. Look, obviously I made the decision to get married, and unfortunately it didn't work out. With my day-school education, I always abstractly knew the risks, as Jewish law mandates that a kohen can't marry a divorcee or convert. Yet surrounded by the successful marriages of my parents, relatives and family friends, I never thought I would join the ranks of the forbidden, “the fallen women.” Call me cynical, but that's how it sometimes feels. I've accepted that I can't date a segment of the population, although I find it hard to understand why it's just us women who enter a certain category, while previously married men – and indeed, divorced kohanim – can move on without an official “divorced/offlimits” status ascribed to them. But more than that, I was angry that God had put me in this position. Sure, I could have asked, but I was distracted and having fun. I believe the Almighty is behind the curtain, pulling the strings, so why did He allow this to happen? Why did He engineer for us to meet and then be disappointed? Sure, it was just one date, but in my mid-30s I don't take a good date, and a good guy, for granted. I know how hard it is to click with someone. I don't have answers. I do believe there is a reason for everything, and that somehow there was a purpose in us meeting. Maybe I even feel a little lucky, and under God's protection, in the sense that Idan revealed on our first date – and not our fourth – that he was a kohen, ripping the band-aid off right away. Whatever it is, I let myself wallow a little in my bitterness. It's my prerogative, I think, as a divorcee. As of this writing, I've forced myself to move on, since it's not doing me any good – but right afterward, I was in it. So after Idan walked me to my door (ever the gentleman), I gulped down more wine, devoured some chocolate and called a close girlfriend to lament for a while. Sometimes, when a response from God isn't immediately forthcoming, wine, chocolate and a good dose of female bonding is the only answer.
