Part 1 of 3

I arrive on time, which already feels like a small victory. The plastic tablecloths are sparkling white, so white they feel fragile, like they’re daring the room to ruin them. If I’m lucky, the farbeisin is actually in bowls, and there are utensils instead of hands. I grab my seat strategically: close enough to see the mashpia’s full face and hear his side conversations during the niggunim, but far enough that he can’t catch me glancing at my phone or squeezing in Rambam. Most importantly, I claim a clean zone. Elbows only. No spills. No crumbs. This is my territory.

As the farbrengen starts, the room slowly fills. The seats beside me disappear, and behind me the bleacher creatures assemble, standing for hours, somehow sustained by nothing but Mashke and zitz fleish. I marvel at it from a distance, careful not to turn around too much, because movement invites danger.

Then it happens. The guy next to me asks someone to pass the egg salad. That dreaded, smelly, mushy yellow substance. He spreads it onto his crackers with reckless confidence, and midway to his mouth a glob drops onto his pants. Fine. Accidents happen. He scoops it up with a napkin… and then casually places that napkin directly into my clean area. I freeze internally, smiling politely while my soul screams.

The mashpia finishes speaking and a niggun begins, the universal signal to unleash more farbeisin. But the room is packed, so instead of passing things - the room is too full for that, someone throws a bag of chips. This triggers a chain reaction: bags knock bottles into bowls, bowls coat bottles in mysterious residue, bottles slam into cups, cups spill onto a bochur, who jolts and pulls down the tablecloth, which bestows this beloved filth onto them. As if that’s not enough, the bochur across from me starts banging his fist on the table in perfect rhythm with the niggun. Each thump sends the cup of mashke bouncing closer and closer to my clean zone. I watch it inch forward in slow motion, helpless, calculating angles and splash radius like it’s a live grenade.

One holy bochur keeps singing the niggun as seltzer, herring, and chip crumbs rain down on him. A real mufshat.

The mashpia seizes the moment to grab a bite, and whatever he’s eating soon becomes airborne, lightly misting the bochurim in his radius during his next talk. I am fighting for survival now. I desperately grab every napkin I can find, building flimsy barriers, trying to preserve a square inch of cleanliness. The table is no longer a table. It's what I use in my mind to picture what the Tanya says to compare women to when you have a Taava. Somehow, I find a tiny clean patch where I can rest just my elbows. I cling to it like a lifeboat.

The room quiets. I breathe. I have maybe a few minutes before the next niggun, before the cycle begins again.

If I make it three or four hours into the farbrengen, I know my exit cue. It’s when that guy stands up on his chair to shake and bang to a slow camp song. Someone inevitably yells that he’s a depressed Detroiter and that we need a freilach niggun. That’s when all restraint collapses. Chairs move, people shout, and tablecloths (and occasionally pants) come crashing down. I disappear into the night. My pants go straight into the hamper.

And if my bathroom is still clean the next morning? I consider myself incredibly lucky.

The sequel to this diary entitled, "Clean freak at a Mesivta Farbrengen" coming soon.

Note: This is a true account of events, with light editing assistance from AI.