I’m sitting in shul slumped in my chair. I look like a drunk with a bad hangover. By this juncture, I’m wondering what on earth possessed me to get out of bed this morning. Sure, my guilty conscience, ahem the yetzer tov awoke me from some awesome dream and encouraged me to get to shul. I’m not willing to believe that women, no matter how high their spiritual madreiga may be, actually volunteer to do such madness.
As I look around I realize that I’m number 11, there are few worse feelings that getting to shul to make the minyan and realizing that you’re not the tenth man and they already have a minyan. I think the feeling falls in line with missing a kick ass meat cholent because you decided to eat at the token left wing modern orthodox family in the shul who was known to have milchigs for lunch. I guess you can compare the feeling to getting up for class, only to realize it’s Sunday.
Number 11 sucks, it really does, unless that fellow without the tefillin on isn’t Jewish. Hmm…I wonder if I was the tenth guy after all. Just as I think it, God hooks a brother up, the chazzan turns around, the rabbi nods and kadesh yusum begins. If not for the older folk davening for their long deceased relatives I would have had to wait to baruch hu to figure out if waking up was worth it.
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