I met a Jewish mother and lived to tell the tale

Confession: sometimes I make tasteless jokes. In fact, after experiencing the hell that was my ex-fiance's mother (First Sentence ever spoken in my presence: "Well, John would never do that to me", with John being my fiance's dead brother), I used to say that the next one would have to be an orphan. And then the next one was an orphan which presented a whole new mess of issues and since then I've preferred to date out-of-towners who have nice, arms-length relations. Combine this with the fact that I live in a really not-very-Jewy place and it basically means that I don't have much occasion to bump into Jewish mothers, which is both good and bad. Bad because I really want to see a seriously Jewish mom in shabbat/yom tov cooking mode, but good because -- well, they scare the shit out of me.

Cue three weeks ago, when I volunteered to show some Monsey BY girls around my campus -- why, I couldn't tell you because they aren't Maimonides Day School girls, you know? They weren't progressive Orthodox Jewish girls who'd ever be interested in going to my university, more the Touro type and so while I was confused as to why they were there, I was polite and pleasant all the same -- after all, what do I know? So as I'm walking and talking, it starts to rain; without thinking, I take my umbrella and pass it to their chaperone, a very Monsey (but still very nice) mom. This was kind of a no brainer thing: it would have been selfish for me to use the umbrella when I a) had a pashmina to put over my head, b) wasn't wearing a very stylish sheitel, and c) was in the presence of an elder who must be respected.

So I think I'm being nice, but this woman immediately and firmly rejected my advances -- 'What are you doing giving that to me?" "No, no, you keep that umbrella." "No, why would you think I want that thing?" I finally gathered that she just didn't want to hold it herself but she was miserable in the rain, so I finally told her just as firmly that if my hair gets wet I go back to the apartment and dry it, whereas she will be stuck for the rest of the day in someone else's damp hair, after which she took the effing parapluie. Of course, I said this in the nicest way possible and so she started in on the questions:

What did you say your name was?
How old are you?
Where do you live?
When did your parents move here?
What are their names?
Where does your father daven?
You ever been to Monsey?
Do you know the so and sos?
Where did you go to day school?
Are you studying here?
What are you studying? That? What do you want to study that for?
So you're in shidduch?
You have a boyfriend?
Where's he from? Where are his parents from? Where is he learning? Why is he learning there? He's not frum? Oh, he is frum? Why did his mother let him do that?

I mean, come on! Me, who usually keeps secrets from everyone, who will leave anything vague if given the option -- I could not stop answering her! I just felt compelled to give her all this information, and she asked so quickly, one question and the next and if I hadn't shaken myself out of that trance when she asked about The Boy's mother, she'd have my social security number by now.

I went home at the end of the day still a little stunned, but thanking God for my ivory tower situation. I don't know how you girls do it out there in the trenches -- Brooklyn, Lakewood, the Five Towns just crawling with shaddchanim and well-meaning mothers -- but better you than me. Better you than me.