Well, it’s that time of year again. Time for G-d to judge whether we live or die. If you goyim think Christmas is stressful, and are on your best behavior all year lest you find a lump of coal in your stocking, you should try living with the weight of The Book of Life. Just when you’re over that back-to-school anxiety – when those naked-in-the-hall-can’t-find-your-math-class-didn’t-realize-there-was-a-history-test dreams stop haunting your sleep, it’s time to face your Maker. Time to account for your sins. Take stock of the very worth of your life. This is the beauty of the Jewish High Holy Days. And, let’s be honest, one of the (many) reasons so many of my people find themselves in a lifelong relationship with their therapist. When I was little I was sure I wouldn’t make it to the five thousandth and whatever year it was of Jewish life. Mostly because I stole a Playmobil baby from my best friend’s dollhouse. (This petty theft was followed by my friend’s Mickey Mouse watch, which I then wore in front of her, insisting that it was just a coincidence that I suddenly had the same watch she had misplaced). There was no doubt in my mind that G-d would strike me dead for this. And no amount of apples and honey could convince me there would be anything sweet about the coming new year.
I'm Worried My Therapist Hates Me: A neurotic millennial's musings and doodles on life, parenthood, and the myriad ways she can blame her mother for her troubles. 