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JULIE EDGAR SENIOR WRITER

DAY ONE:

Mom called me at work to tell
me to hurry up and decide what
kind of wedding I want — big or
small. Co-workers fire questions:
Proposal? Ring? Date? Dress?
Big? Small? I fear I have re-
gressed into a Barbie-toting pre-
teen because I dutifully answer
them all, with a smile.

DAY Two:

We can't do it in mid-June be-
cause of my nephew's bar mitz-
vah and his family's subsequent
move to Arizona. July? Out. My
brother is studying for the bar
exam. August? No way. Sister
will be too pregnant. September?
Why not.

DAY THREE:

We decide on early June. That
way, my brother's family won't
have to fly in from Arizona to at-
tend the wedding later in the
year and skip their Thanksgiv-
ing visit. It will be far enough in
advance of the bar mitzvah to
make everybody happy.
Colleagues at work are old
hands at this. Like pea-shooters,
they spit out names of possible
wedding venues. They warn me
about the aggravation of plan-
ning a wedding. I stay late to
talk to another engaged co-work-
er about probable snafus —
bloated guest lists, friends who

can't stay sober at a party.
Talk to fiance about eloping.

DAY FOUR:

My fiance and I make up a
guest list. I realize I have way
more friends than he does. A mo-
ment of silence. I tell him he
might have to trim his list.
We ask our rabbi if hell per-
form the ceremony. He agrees.
In a moment of misty-eyed
sentimentality, we decide we'd
like a "meaningful," no-frills
wedding with family and
close friends nearby, maybe
in somebody's garden.
We'd get a kosher cater-
er, nobody would have to
worry about their seat-
ing arrangements, nobody
would wait on anybody.

ILLUSTRATION BY DAVE WHAMOND

M

y parents knew I was en-
gaged before I did: My fi-
ance thought that telling
them before he asked me
was the decent thing to do.
We returned to their house af-
ter dinner that evening. While I
was in the bathroom, I heard one
of my sisters stampeding down
the stairs. "Are you engaged?" she
fluttered as the flushing sound of
the toilet receded.
My other sister answered the
phone. "Oh, you're engaged?" she
said, feigning surprise. She and
her husband threw on some jeans
and came over.
Reached by phone, my grand-
mother gushed that she's been
praying every day for this mo-
ment. No surprise there, either.
We drank champagne. It
would be the last celebratory ex-
perience for a long while because
we, in my mother's parlance, are
"in gear."

...

DAY FIVE:

Mom nixes the idea. We'll get
married in her house and have
the reception elsewhere.
Will the rabbi perform the cer-
emony if we eat at a nonkosher
place afterward?

DAY SIX:

The rabbi agrees. We consult
our book on Jewish marriage and
sigh with relief that the date does
not seem to fall in a prohibited
period.
Mother's frequent phone mes-
sages are now reduced to two
words: "Call me."
i'm griping a lot lately.

DAY SEVEN:

The rabbi calls. He cannot
perform the ceremony on the
chosen night because it falls
during the 49 days of the count-
ing of the Omer, the period be-
tween Passover and Shavuot.
However, Lag B'Omer at the
halfway mark is permitted, and
there's a small window of op-
portunity — 24 hours — a week
later, he says. I call my mom.
Can't do it.
My significant other and I face
each other at the dining room
table. He suggests becoming
Christians so we can have our
wedding whenever and wherev-
er we want. Then he further
jokes that since we have to ac-
commodate everybody else's
schedule, we should ask my par-
ents to give us the mother of all
parties later in the year.

DAY
EIGHT:

Mother's messages are re-
duced to one word: "Call."
I mention the idea of reserving
a much, much bigger room. I hear
my dad laughing in the back-
ground. My mother says she
thought I wanted a small, inti-
mate affair. I say we did at one
time, but we've changed. We've
metamorphosed into two gigan-
tic outstretched hands.
My sister tells me later I'm not
being grateful enough to our par-
ents. After all, she said, they don't
have to do anything for us, do
they? I point out that her wed-
ding was no less than a gala af-
fair.

DAY NINE:

Announce to co-workers that
the date has been changed and
who knows when it will be.
Find a new date. This has got
to be right. My Jewish calendar
says it is.
Ask the rabbi.

DAY 10:

It's a no-go. That day is among
those leading up to Tisha B'Av,
the commemoration of the de-
struction of the Second Temple.
Joke that the restrictions would
send anybody scurrying into the
arms of a gentile. The rabbi ac-
tually laughs.
A round of "oys" in the news-
room.
Call mother with the bad
news. She suggests another rab-
bi — a Christian one, perhaps.

DAY 11:

We have a date in July! Moth-
er calls brother, sister-in-law, sis-
ters, friends. Fortunately, they
give their approval.
I meet my mother to try on
dresses. I'm lumpy. I leave her
depressed.
She calls later that evening,
leaves a message reiterating

the date of the wedding as if
she might have heard it in a
dream. I call back: Yes, that's the
date, certain. "OK, bye," she
says, and before she hangs up
the phone I hear her proclaim-
ing to my father that we have a
date. I can hear the train jump
back on the track and take off
like a shot.
My fiance and I discuss how
petty we're starting to feel. A lot
of old conflicts arise around these
occasions. We agree that the wed-
ding might not be exactly what
we want it to be, but we'll live
with whatever it turns out to be.
We pull out a world atlas and plot
our honeymoon trip.

12:
I wake up resigned to my fate.
Chirpily phone my mother.
"Call," I say to her answering ma-
chine before hanging up.

DAY

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