If the Torah were a woman, I wouldn’t date her.
Granted, she’d probably be a beautiful 5’5’’ brunette with kind eyes and body for days, but the simple fact of the matter is this: It’s not her; it’s me.
For one, I’d have a problem with the age difference— I’m 26 and she’s at least 3313 years old. While she might have some experience under her belt, the fact that I’d constantly have to update her on references to “The Office,” what a Justin Bieber is and things like the Internet, might get tired very quickly. Then there’s my neediness. If I’m with someone I care about, I need to be able to see them more than just the holidays, three mornings and one afternoon a week. On the rare occasion that I saw her, she’d expect me to dress her up in velvet, with little tassels and lots of jewelry, and parade her around in public while everyone kissed her. I’m a jealous guy who likes to stay in. When undressed, I would be forbidden from touching her, and would only be permitted to do so with a small metal rod shaped like an index finger. Not to mention that everyone would be watching me do it. And, of course, no matter how much I argued my point of view or tried to understand exactly what she meant, I would always be wrong, and she, as the word of G-d, would be right. Any one of these reasons is more than enough to break the deal for me.
It’s a good thing the Torah is a holy scripture and not a woman, otherwise I’d have a real hard time being a Jew.