Friday, March 29, 2024, Palm Beach International (PBI) Airport, 12:30 P.M.
When my ears finally pop, I am immediately overcome with a humidity so severe I'm sure our plane has mistakenly landed inside a wet sponge instead of southern Florida. To make matters worse, despite being in the front of the plane, I have to wait for at least 30 handicapped seniors to be rolled out in wheelchairs before I can finally disembark [1].
I am here in sunny Boca Raton to spend spring break with my grandmother, whom I—being your standard Jewish puppa shayne [2]—call "Bubbe." I take a car service from the airport to Bubbe's home, which is within a residential community named "The Polo Club." [3] Bubbe is incredibly ecstatic to see me. Yet our conversation upon my arrival quickly turns into her explaining our itinerary for the week. Everything seems very conservative, very safe. Nothing exciting. Each morning on the schedule begins at 8:00 A.M. sharp with breakfast in the Bagel Room [4].
I have decided to chronicle my experience in the Bagel Room each day of my "vacation."
Saturday, 8:05 A.M.
My grandmother is already stressed about being five minutes late. I'm not sure exactly what she is so concerned about, for there is truly no rush [5]. The moment we step foot in the Bagel Room, I can tell that bagels are not a top priority; Bubbe swiftly leads me over to her machatainestas [6], who are already enthralled in chatter, but quiet instantly when they see me. "Oh my gawd, Esther [7], who is this handsome young man?" multiple sentient clouds of Chanel No. 5 ask at once. I am soon surrounded on all sides by small Jewish women—some of whom are petting me and feeling my curly hair—and I am not sure how I feel about it. "Where are you from, hun?" is the next question thrown my way, and my response of Westchester, NY [8], seems to be the right answer, as all the women begin telling of their relatives who live there. One proudly exclaims: "My son lives in Scarsdale. He is a partner at Goldman Sachs." Another then retorts, "mine is a dermatologist with his own practice. He just bought a beautiful five-bedroom in Chappaqua." This seems to have become some sort of competition to prove who has the most successful children. And when I say most successful, I mean most monetarily so. I begin to feel uncomfortable. I think I am going to remove myself from the conversation (debate) and go toast a flagel.
Sunday, 8:00 A.M.
What a relief—we made it to the Bagel Room on time. Bubbe once again takes me over to her girlfriends, some of whom I recognize from yesterday, others new. Having learned my lesson, I decide to stand back from the conversation today and just listen. "I have my cardiologist appointment tomorrow," I hear one voice declare in a Long Island accent. "My dear friend back in Jersey just had a heart attack. God rest her soul," her friend responds. The longer I listen to each woman's conversation, the more I learn about geriatric medicine. At one point, a conversation starts up regarding funeral homes—future ones for the yentas [9] themselves [10]. I am astonished and earnestly disheartened that these women are so hyper-focused on health and, really, death; I want to jump in and tell them to live in the moment, to stop being so forward-looking. But I don't. I stay quiet, praying that the ladies don't remember I'm there.
Monday, 7:50 A.M.
According to my grandmother, everyone wants a bagel to start their week, so we must arrive at the Bagel Room even earlier today. While I rolled out of bed at 7:30 this morning, my Bubbe has been up since 6:00 applying makeup. It seems to me as if some of the machatainestas started their day even earlier than she; their makeup is totally meshuga[11], to say the least. This is yet another concept that perplexes me: who, exactly, are these women trying to impress? Their husbands of 50-plus years who are most likely sitting at home pantless, watching cable television? Once more, I feel some type of sympathy for these women. They have worn their skin for at least three-quarters of a century, yet they seem less confident in it now than ever [12].
The hot topic today is politics, specifically the approaching 2024 election. Most at the breakfast table seem to be staunch Republicans, many claiming to support Trump because he will be "better for the economy." To be quite blunt, I am disgusted; it is obvious to me that many of these women are wealthy and choose to affiliate with the Republican party out of pure cupidity [13], with little to no regard for the majority of Americans [14]. They are so isolated in their Everland [15] that they are blind to the plight of the average, working- or middle-class person.
I am very tempted to offer my opinion in the discussion, but before I can do so, one lady proudly asserts that she will not be voting for Trump, admitting that she would rather risk losing some capital than see our country go to drek [16]. I feel palliated knowing that not everyone at the club possesses greed as dense as their fifty coats of mascara. Before I know it, the big thing on the table is no longer politics (or bagels, for that matter), but an abnormally colored mole on one of the ladies' forearms.
Tuesday, 8:02 A.M. [17]
Today will be my last day eating bagels for a while. I leave later today, and though I will miss my Bubbe, I can't say the same for the Bagel Room. I decide to have a bagel with jelly today—more sugary than my usual choice, but I could use some extra sweetness to mask the distaste I feel at spending another hour listening to nonsensical schmegegge [18]. As I approach the breakfast crew, I am not greeted by anyone, for all the French-manicured hands are occupied, stabbing at their phones with stylus pens [19]. I stand behind one woman to get a closer look at what moral obscenity all the excitement is over. But it's their grandchildren. They are sharing photos of their grandchildren. I feel guilty, somewhat ashamed; I had presumed that they were likely flaunting photos of new summer homes or gawking at an acquaintance's most recent elective surgery results, but no—they were all just being proud bubbes, each visibly teeming with nachas [20].
Over the course of this short trip, it has become clear to me that, in the end, beneath the loud voices, the bedazzled white Capri pants, and the incessant kvetching [21], these women aren't just being flamboyant for show—they're fighting to stay visible, relevant, and, most importantly, remembered. While there may be no excuse for their materialism and acquisitiveness (reflected by their political convictions), their love of makeup, gossip, and medical moaning masks a deeper truth: a fear of being forgotten, of leaving their grandchildren too soon, of the angel of death creeping in uninvited. And perhaps that's why they seem so fixated on what's next; by holding tight to the promise of tomorrow morning's bagel and kvetch session, an upcoming trip to Publix [22] in full makeup and heels, or a grandchild's next visit, these women have something to look forward to. Something to keep them going.
As my grandmother would say, it's all schmaltz [23] in disguise—loud, fabulous, unforgettable love.