Duality of Pain

Passover begins next week and guess who went to a Seder dinner on Friday? Yep. Me.

If you have been to one before, you know about the highly ritualistic meal including “bitter herbs.” Official translation = ground horseradish. This root is not a part of my normal diet because, to be frank, spicy food tastes like garbage to me. Why would I try to burn the inside of my mouth, nose or other tender membranes? Foolishness. But this was for the sake of cultural understanding and so after I had my parsley dipped in salt water and a few traditional readings, the bitter herbs were passed to me. At my table there was a bit of a contest regarding who would consume the most in one bite. So those of us who bend to such foolish competition heaped our utensils full and on cue the entire room of 100+ people put the spoon full of hate into our mouths. Approximately half a second passed before the entirety of my nose, throat, mouth, chest and brain began to burn with a sensation that can only be described as complete and utter agony. My friend across the table turned the color of a turnip, the one next to me began to cough and seize up. In a panic I reached for my water and consumed it as quickly as I could. Death was upon us.

About five minutes later we were all sorry to have been so bold and foolish. It tainted the rest of the meal. Around the table were murmurs. “I understand the idea of empathizing with the pain of the Hebrew nation but I wish they had just ‘tased’ me, instead” and “My hubris was my downfall.”

Speaking of pain, last night I went to the MMA Showdown. That’s right. If ever you were looking to find a gaggle of sweetbros and women in six-inch heels, that is the place to go. That place was SWARMING. In the tradition of going to places out of my comfort zone, I went to a mixed martial arts competition and watched dudes with tattoos and pink hair beat the snot out of each other in “The Octagon.” Now you might not believe it, but in my coral dress appropriate for a Sabbath day mixer, limited makeup and brown kitten heels, I didn’t really fit in. Apparently I missed the memo that I was to dress like I was vying for the “ring girl” position. What a disappointment! What self respecting girl wouldn’t want to wear a black sparkly tank top that was cut to reveal she was wearing a thong? What better job than to walk around the ring holding up a sign that said “Round 1,” a mere four feet above an assembly of lecherous men looking upward?

That said, aside from the women perpetuating the idea that they are objects to be used and disposed of, I actually had a reasonably good time. Sometimes it is nice to watch the rawness of humanity. Should I appreciate that? Probably not, but I can’t help myself; I just can’t look away.

So pain, of the religious and mundane, the personal and removed, and the academic and the low brow varieties were all a part of my weekend. Strange but refreshing. I should at this point draw some sort of insightful conclusion about the variety of pain in the world and how sometimes it surprises us and other times we approach it and ask it to punch us in the face. Is that stupidity? Bravery? Should we bother to label it? Do we wait to be caught or face it head on? Who knows. Maybe both are the correct choice.