Recently, I had a very strange dream. It appeared that I’d died, and was awaiting my turn at the afterlife accountability office. But instead of shining angels, glowing lights, and Anita Bryant pouring a pitcher of o.j. for heavenly hospitality – I saw Jesus – in an amazing Armani suit with stunning suede sandals. (“You can take the Messiah outta Nazareth but…”) He also had a hovering halo around his head, and looked genuinely GQ (God-Qualified). How did I know that he was Jesus? He resembled the religious paintings at Goodwill of “The Last Supper.” Give or take a few, blurred brushstrokes.
He sweetly smiled, and motioned to me to follow him. We walked for awhile in silence. Suddenly, he turned to me and adamantly announced: “I’m Jesus, your personal shopper!” I replied: “Don’t you mean savior?” He laughed and responded: “Look, we’re both Jews. The only thing I can save you is some money. Let’s go to Nordstrom Rack. If that’s okay with you. Nu?” Was he serious? The Rack is like crack for fashionistas. (It’s the closest to couture, that many middle-class women can get.) Although I didn’t have my wallet with me, Jesus jubilantly assured me that I wouldn’t need one. Apparently, he had cosmic, cash connections.
We walked into the store, and all of the slavish salespeople flocked to his side. They fawned over his attire and gave him copious compliments. They ignored me. I felt a trifle irked. After all, I looked good too. I was wearing an elegant, Eileen Fisher linen dress, Prada pumps, and carrying a Henry Beguelin bag from Barneys. (I’d rudely refused the shapeless schmatte, that one of the angry angels had offered me.) Jesus graciously acknowledged their annoying adoration (and adulation), but remained focused on our expedition. He told me to buy whatever I wanted, but it had to meet his celestial, style standards first.
We went wild. I tried on incredible cashmere sweaters, and Jesus yelled “Hallelujah, honey!” I tied on silk scarves, and Jesus shouted “Love it!” He approved of everything, except for a form-fitting, sexy skirt. He deemed it: “Too Samantha in Sex and the City.” Eventually, I was exhausted. I happily handed my clothes to Jesus. He took them to the register, paid with a platinum credit card, and we left. I wanted to treat him to a Starbucks’ latte to thank him, but he told me he didn’t drink coffee: “It’s bad for my digestion, and I need to watch my waistline.”
Before we said goodbye, I asked him about the personal savior stuff. He waved his well- manicured hands dismissively. “Don’t worry about that drivel, Rivkah. Christians have been misinterpreting and twisting my message for millenia. I never said that I was a personal savior. It’s something that the pedantic Pentecostals created. Personally, I find it offensive and stupid. Ignore that crazy crap, and remember to bookmark Bluefly. Their pre-spring sale is sensational!” When I woke up, those wise words echoed inside my soul. Then, I frantically searched for my stash. Unfortunately, however, I’d left the loot behind.