Culturally Yours, Mine, & Ours

As we know, we are not the only peoples on earth who utilize shadchanim. South Asians—Indians and Pakistanis, for instance—also dig them. 

Considering how my experiences with shadchanim were less than ideal (they tended to set me up with people who were not remotely on point, then demanded to know why I was saying no), I wondered if their matchmakers are better. Then I thought of the reality show "Indian Matchmaking," where it looked like the same six people were on rotation, so I guess not. 

From reading this article, there is little differentiation in the Indian world to being set up by a matchmaker or a family friend—a blind date is a blind date, like by us. The lovely woman who set me up with Han is a friend of my relative and a machanteneste somewhere on his side.

The interviewees in the article make a point to clarify that while the term "love marriage" is applied to couples who met on their own, it's still the same love story for those who were introduced through a matchmaker. It's not necessarily any less romantic as it would be if they met cute. Like by us, too.

In the same issue of Sunday Styles, there is a Modern Love story by Pakistani woman who grew up in the US. After seeing Bend It Like Beckham, she believed it would be possible for her to end up with a white man, and preferred not to date men of the same ethnicity. 

She moved to Pakistan for work, where it wasn't exactly easy to meet white men; when she became friendly with a fellow Pakistani, she didn't initially see him at all in a romantic light. 

I couldn’t put my finger on what finally attracted me to him. For starters, the brown culture signaling of my imagined biracial relationship wasn’t necessary because we were both brown. Gradually I realized that meant I didn’t have to do my exhausting, race-conscious performance either, the self-deprecating jokes I would mutter about terrorism (or whatever stereotype came to me in the moment), the reflexive ironic shield I felt I needed as the one Pakistani in the crowd. He understood without me having to say anything.

When I was dating, I was hoping for someone who came from a somewhat similar background. When I would go out with guys who were more American in upbringing, I would carefully edit my language lest a Yiddish word or phrase would slip out. If one did, they would look at me in annoyance. 

With Han, I don't have to do that. Especially since he understands Yiddish better than I do, and appreciates my fondness for quoting grandparents (he does the same).

After months of dating, I saw how much space that performance had taken up in my previous relationships: Without it, I was vulnerable and prone. With the weight of constant posturing suddenly lifted, I felt an intimacy I could never achieve with the not-brown guys. Ali and I are married now, and it’s the most comfortable I have ever felt with another human being.

What’s funny is that, in writing this story, I realize I have penned the exact type of propaganda immigrant mothers peddle to keep their daughters in the culture. Before Ali, my mother was fond of telling me stories of some distant friend or relative who married a white man and then divorced, only to find happiness once they remarried a Desi.

This isn’t that, but it’s not not that either. I’m not attracted to my husband because he’s brown, but I also know we wouldn’t have the relationship we have if he weren’t. That’s not to say we’re so similar; if anything, the fact that he grew up in Pakistan while I spent my youth in the Midwest separates us more than most of my past relationships. But what we share in common — an unspoken understanding of a culture that shapes the way we are, whether we like it or not — constitutes a bond much stronger than the rest of it.

You can't hide where you come from, no matter how much you may try. There's a difference being who you are and going into a relationship where your differences are accepted and even celebrated; it's another to subsume oneself in the futile attempt to "fit in." 

I've been teased and even mocked for my stubborn adherence to my heritage, especially since I don't even speak Yiddish or Hungarian fluently. But I'm proud of it, and identify with it, and I hoped to be with someone who wouldn't expect me to suppress it. I did end up with someone who is equally proud of his own background—and we enjoy the fact that our grandparents even knew each other.

Marry Him?

After finishing her book, I googled "Lori Gottlieb" to find more material on her, and I discovered that she wrote a book ten years ago called Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough.

Uh-oh. 

It was based on an article she wrote for The Atlantic in 2008: 

My advice is this: Settle! That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling “Bravo!” in movie theaters. Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics. Because if you want to have the infrastructure in place to have a family, settling is the way to go. Based on my observations, in fact, settling will probably make you happier in the long run, since many of those who marry with great expectations become more disillusioned with each passing year. (It’s hard to maintain that level of zing when the conversation morphs into discussions about who’s changing the diapers or balancing the checkbook.)

Et tu, Lori? 

Reading on, I realized the issue is based on what "settling" actually means. I can't quite relate to this, because I'm actually a very boring person who just wanted to set up house and I was on the search for someone to set up the house with. Note, it was easier said than done. 

She's making the claim that a steady, reliable guy who will be a hands-on father and care about your feelings are a dime a dozen, and women primarily search for the sweep-me-off-my-feet dashing cool dudes who will only divorce them for younger models. Generalization much?

I came across this article in Jezebel magazine from earlier this year rehashing Gottlieb's book. The author, Tracy Clark-Flory, is annoyed how women are broadly painted with the "unrealistic expectations" brush, "Meanwhile, men come under no meaningful critique for superficiality or entitlement in the realm of sex and romance. They are largely the sane observers of women’s irrational whims." 

Gottlieb considers herself guilty of "unrealistic expectations." She ended up becoming a mother via sperm donor as she had no man on the horizon. Spoiler, her most recent book, published nearly a decade later, opens with her boyfriend breaking up with her when she thought he was "The One." It makes me wonder if she believed that if she was willing to try hard enough then a relationship would work. But it takes two to tango, and don't we know that. 

However, Clark-Flory does note that the publishers insisted on this eye-catching title, while Gottlieb's point was more about prioritizing character in a life partner as opposed to his looks. 

Clark-Flory had broken up with her lovely boyfriend when she was 26 because she wasn't ready for a forever commitment. She had fretted if she had made the right decision, and did end up marrying later on. But she concludes: 

Now that we’re here, many of us have realized, if we hadn’t long ago, that marriage isn’t a guarantee of happiness, it doesn’t automatically secure an equal partnership in parenting, and it’s often only a temporary state.

More to the point: no predictive storyline emerged around pickiness or settling, because there are no rules to this game. An individual woman’s marital status at any point in time is often chiefly representative of the unpredictable lives many of us are now allowed to live.

THERE ARE NO RULES! I really thought I was not being picky about dating (even though people said I was). I went out with guys who did not fit my criteria. And it didn't go anywhere until Han came along, who, I might add, had also been accused of being "picky."

I was not looking for Brad Pitt. Other single women I know of were/are not looking for Brad Pitt. But they still had a tough time. Because finding the right partner is not always easy, nothing to do with "settling." 

A woman may find her Brad Pitt immediately, and happily spend the rest of her life gazing at his pretty face. A man may be "searching for a heart of gold," but he's "growing old." Finding the right person, for anyone, no matter what the criteria might be, is not always a simple matter "reasonable criteria." Sometimes it doesn't work, no matter how much compromise is on the table.

No Such Thing as Chance

"Have you ever thought about how small the chances are that you would be born? If just one thing in history had changed, just one of your millions of ancestors hadn't crossed paths at the exact moment they did, then you wouldn't exist. You'd never have even lived a single day." 

That bit was from Love Wedding Repeat, a mildly amusing movie on Netflix. The first chunk of the film shows what would happen if one thing, one thing had gone differently, how the outcome could have either been catastrophic for all or happy endings everywhere. 

I have moments when I think, "I wish Ben could have known Ma," but then I realize that if Ma hadn't died, chances are there would be no Ben. There would be someone else in his place, very possibly a horrifically crabby baby who I would not want to introduce to anyone. 

We don't believe in chance. But we don't see the system that's in place. There's a mind-boggling confluence of factors that we can't keep track of. 

In The Good Place episode Pandemonium, Janet, a sort of walking computer database with some nifty abilities (like Data), says: 

Janet: The more human I become, the less things make sense. But that's part of the fun, right?

Eleanor: What do you mean?

Janet: If there were an answer I could give you to how the universe works, it wouldn't be special. It would just be machinery fulfilling its cosmic design. It would just be a big, dumb food processor. But since nothing seems to make sense, when you find something or someone that does, it's euphoria. 

There's a whole debate about bashert. When dating, the conversation is all about cutting losses, settling, analyzing wardrobes, dissecting conversation, and I believed in it after all those years of dating. I thought choosing a life partner was going to require sitting down and rationally weighing pros and cons, but with Han I felt a "click" I never did before. I'm now all about the bashert, y'all. 

If we knew all the answers—tzaadik v'ra lo, what does the next world look like, why do I suddenly need something the second I throw it out after it was sitting in a closet for five years—what would be the point? 

But consider: We are all miracles. I'm not the first person to gaze, dewy-eyed, at her baby and marvel at all of his working parts, his developing brain, the emerging personality. Han recalled that his friend, a doctor, had to first study embryology, the subject of all things that can go wrong in utero. 

Whatever happens is supposed to happen. I was supposed to date for freakin' forever. Ma was supposed to die. Han and I were supposed to marry when we did. Ben was supposed to be born.  

We don't know why. We didn't program this simulation. We can only recognize the beauty in it.  

TGIF

• A Jewish Rapper in Germany;

• Mazel Tovs in Uganda.

"Krazy" Kallahs

It is a complaint of feminists that females are often straddled with different labels for similar qualities than males are. Like how little girls are "bossy," while boys are "assertive." I will concede my niece is bossy. But her brother is a dictator. I don't think the latter term has a more flattering vibe than the former. 

Kelsey McKinney takes umbrage at the moniker of "bridezilla." She claims that "everyone" has expectations that a wedding should be slam-bang amazing, but that the bride shouldn't be assertive in insisting on what she wants lest she be maligned by the above. 

As someone who just experienced her own wedding, I beg to differ. 

I will concede that in the frum New York world, wedding planning is not as exhausting (even though it is pretty darn exhausting). Our society is set up for weddings, and many matters do not have to be micromanaged. And yet. And yet: 

I never dreamed about my wedding. I fantasized about married life, but not the wedding itself. I had visions of my gown, but otherwise, frankly? Eh. 

Additionally, following Ma's passing, I simply wanted this to be a joyous celebration with my family, especially the kinfauna who have been badgering me for a wedding for a decade. In very few areas did I have a strong opinion to voice, and if I did, who says one has to be fire-breathing? What came pretty close to breaking me was seating arrangements, but that left me limp and GERD-ridden (maybe I was fire-breathing), not FURIOUS. 

My sister-in-law noted the difference between two simchos she attended. By Party A, everything was choreographed to perfection. But the hostess was so nervous that the negative vibes affected the guests' enjoyment. However, Party B had a major goof: the power went out. And the hosts laughed. (The electricity came back.)

Party B was a lot more fun than Party A, my sister-in-law said, because it really depends on the energy the hosts exude. 

Of course there were a few wedding day hiccups. But I refused to let them overpower me or my family. We were going to be happy and mindful, dammit. 

Afterwards, I was surprised how many people told me the wedding was so much fun. Luke observed, "That's what happens when you don't give a—," well, I'll omit the impolite emoji he used. 

A party has to be planned, of course. But it should be enjoyed. By everyone. Including the bride.  

My Big Fat Imaginary Wedding

I have some plans for my as-yet-to-be-realized wedding. Flowers: Pink and green. Gown: Slight drop waist, exploding into a multitude of tulle layers. Family color theme: None, but there should be a riot of jewel tones, sapphire blues and emerald greens. 

Via sprout-flowers.com

I like to plan ahead. In our world, the time between dating, engagement, and marriage can be a matter of months. Might as well have some idea of what one likes, no? But I don't think of my wedding with any sort of deep yearning; I don't consider a bedazzled do to be imperative. 

When I think about a wedding, I think of it as a separate entity from marriage. When I think of wedded bliss, I picture myself looking like hell in an apartment with too little kitchen space, yelling at my spouse to kindly take out the garbage.

Unless one was royalty, weddings were modest affairs. Couples in old movies would get engaged, then walk around the corner to city hall, wet and bedraggled from the romantic rain they were just soaked in that made them see each other in a whole new beloved light. 

Once two people decided they were for each other, that was it. No party-planning. No gown-shopping. No talk about princess- or emerald-cut. Marriage was . . . marriage. Unglamorous, everydayish, but still special to the couple alone.  Even with the garbage. 

I'm not sure who started the big-wedding-trend—5-year-old girls toting nuptial scrapbooks?—but from reality to reality shows, "the wedding of the century" is in. We are into it, too. 

Abby Ellin reports in "Blame the Princess" of women who have no guy, but wedding plans (oh, like me, gulp). 

Never mind the bleak statistics on marriage (about 45 percent end in divorce). Many women still dream, feverishly, about their wedding, even those with no groom or boyfriend in sight. They pin photos of fantasy event spaces, dresses and flowers on Pinterest; they design their ideal engagement rings on sites like Ritani.com; they turn to MyKnot, Lover.ly and Project Wedding for ideas on invitations, gift registries and seating charts. . .

A 2014 study conducted by Brides magazine found that approximately 25 percent of its readers are not yet engaged. In 2013, 37 percent of the brides who visited TheKnot.com did not have a fiancé.

Not such a problem, I would think . . . until they ask the bummer experts. 

Women are planning the show before the script is written and “before the leading man shows up,” [Dr. Sue Johnson] said. She understands the desire for companionship. Marriage, she said, “speaks to our longing for connection and our fear of aloneness.” But, she added, the emphasis on weddings and marriage is also somewhat dangerous . . . 

“Weddings are moments when gendered ideas become really clear,” [Emily Fairchild, sociologist] said. “A wedding is a coup for women, because they’ve met their gendered expectation. By having a wedding, you prove your worthiness, your womanness, in a way that a man doesn’t need to. A man can be a man by having a job, in ways that aren’t tied to his family.”

But Dr. Patrick Markey is less alarmist. 

“Women tend to be more selective when picking a mate and have a greater desire for monogamy and a stable relationship than men,” he said. “Thus, they are more likely to dream of a wedding, which symbolizes this desire.”

The wedding-minded women in the article are quick to blame Disney. Every girl wants to be a princess, and all Disney princesses married. But Disney didn't invent the fairy tale. They've been around for hundreds of years to keep women meek and biddable (be a good girl and be an unpaid servant, and maybe one day a gorgeous, rich man will rescue you). 

Not so long ago it was the dream of every women to marry, gain social status as a "wife," and run a house of her own with the support of a good provider, as Professor Ruth Bottigheimer observes.

The fuss over marriage isn't new. It's the fuss over weddings. 

Here's the clincher: 

“If I don’t get married, I’ll feel like I failed. I have career goals and my own personal goals, and they are important to me, but on my deathbed, if you asked me whether I wished I’d been on Broadway or had a family, I’d say 100 percent had a family.”

Yeah . . . but you don't need a destination celebration in order to have a family. 

Ode to NEF

It does change things. It should change things. 

I am dazzled by the thrill in her voice, the brilliance of her smile, the light in her eyes. It contrasts all too poignantly with the not-so-long-ago hopelessness in her words, the trembling of her mouth, the fighting back of tears as she was crushed from yet another disappointment, wondering: What was she doing wrong? 

As I wonder, What am I doing wrong? 

But now, the bliss radiating into a palpable aura, she has found someone that she feels completely comfortable with, someone she can express herself with without careful editing, someone who accepts her as is, as she him. 

Like when we first met. 

We would share our dating horror stories, venting and laughing and commiserating. Now, I cannot; she feels guilty for having locating the missing puzzle piece, and hurries to tell me that she is searching through the pile for me, she really is. 

But I don't want her sympathy, I want her empathy, the way it was before! Bare months previous we would howl our frustrations then hug in understanding, bracing each other with hope in God. We would wallow together with shaken faith, then, with tightly gripped hands, clamber up to conviction once more.

Things have changed. 

Yet I couldn't be happier. 

For she and he have granted me more inspiration than any platitudes could. 

During her courtship she softened, at peace with the universe again. She is so grateful, so very grateful, thanking Hashem for this fulfillment despite her previous wobbly trust, apologizing for her moments of melancholy.

No, we cannot share as we used to; that time is over. But I shall smile at her chuppah, knowing that as she has found her equilibrium, so can I. 

Pucker Up

"Look, here comes the chosson!" 

My niece is very young, about 4, and she hasn't been to a wedding before. By the badeken I hauled her up so she could see the proceedings. I was rattling off incoherent descriptions of what was going on.

"See? There the chosson puts on the veil, because of Yaakov and Rochel, then her father comes up and benches her, then his father, then her Zeidy. . ." 

Wonder widens her baby-blue eyes as she gazes at the bashful bride, smiling demurely as the groom takes a swift moment to murmur in her ear. He then steps back so his father-in-law can place his hands on his daughter's head. 

"When do they kiss?" she asks in disappointment.

My whoop of laughter turned some heads, and I don't think I was able to properly explain to her the modesty standards that differ from Disney. 

And this is the kid with restricted television access. 

Ding-Ding-Ding, Ahem

I first discovered the world of Jewish bloggers after reading an article in The Jewish Week, in which Bad4 was prominently featured. Curious, I visited her site, was swiftly hooked on her musings, and followed links to other blogs, greedily reading whatever came my way. 

Jewish blogs tend to boast a soothing smoke-screen of anonymity, and I like it this way. Personalities (outside my sphere in reality) and I are able to interact, chat, commiserate, discuss, disagree, violently type each other off, etc., all without having to worry about avoiding them in real life. Bliss.

Enter Bad4's celebrated Ice Cream Meets, of which a few I was able to attend, providing they did not clash with my bedtime. To be introduced to the hailed author of rational female frum thought, along with other like-minded starry-eyed fans, was certainly a pleasure.   

As for the blog, I commented when I felt strongly enough about the discourse, but was content to leave it as such. The idea that I, too, could have a blog (like the rest of the universe; there are probably Martians on blogger.com) did not occur to me until that fateful day, April 1, 2011. 

Bad4, as an April fool's joke, posted that she was engaged, which shook me to my very core (did I mention my high gullibility quotient?) Of course, I was happy for her (really!) but I was deluged with potential ramifications. An engaged blogger, especially one who primarily analyzed the dating scene, was a defunct blogger. Marriage would not improve that situation. 

I had begun to rely on Bad4 as a reliable source of droll prose, and now she was leaving me. I had to deal with the situation with clear-headed logic. 

I would start a blog. 

When I was informed as to Bad4's actual engagement, my coping mechanism for her prank was almost three years old. She was the best of promoters; so hallowed is her name that by linking but a few of my posts, she provided me with a regular reading clientele. For that I am grateful beyond words.

I had never truly realized that writing can be a vocation as gripping and as vital as, say, breathing. Bad4 ushered me into the independent forum of blogging, where I was able to grease my rusty digits into activity, because, quite simply, if you don't use it, you lose it. I therefore hope that even if Bad4 chooses to abandon blogging, she will not leave writing behind. 

(With glass in hand, raised to the happy couple) And so, Bad4 and Right4Bad4, Mazel Tov, and I salute you for the inspiration, encouragement, and the laughs. 

(Glug glug glug) This is non-alcoholic Champagne, right?   

Conditional Love

Thanks to computer technology, the great discovery of the Cairo Genizah's shredded documents can be patched together. 

One of the contemporary issues is the saddening existence of agunos, women who are bound in a travesty of marriage from vindictive husbands. There has been some chatter to add a clause in kesubos to avoid the problem altogether, but it doesn't seem to be catching on. 

 

Perhaps our squeamishness to meddle with the classical text would be allayed if we were aware of what was the sort of clauses that were in the marriage documents way back when: 

Outhwaite’s team, for example, has uncovered a prenuptial agreement in which Faiza bat Solomon made her fiancé, Tobias — nicknamed “Son of a Buffoon” — promise to “abandon foolishness and idiocy,” and “not associate with corrupt men,” or face a hefty penalty of 10 gold dinars. Another document spells out a legal agreement between Sitt I-Nasab and her husband, Solomon, preventing his mother and sisters from entering his wife’s quarters or making “any request of her at all, not even a match.”  

Here I was panicking that I may have to diplomatically navigate shviggur-infested waters, but I could easily insert a clause that my mother-in-law can never insult my cooking! 

Scene: Cairo, 1182 C.E., Solomon Residence

Tobias knocks on the front door and asks Solomon for Faiza's hand in marriage. Solomon says, "Hang on, let me ask." 

"So, Faiza, Tobias has asked for your hand!" 

"Tobias? 'The Son of a Buffoon'? Are you kidding me?" 

"I'm sure his foolishness, idiocy, and association with corrupt men will change with marriage." 

"Abba, please, I'm not taking that on faith. I want that in writing."

"OK. How much should the penalty be?" 

"Let's see . . . 10 dinars? I could build up quite a nest-egg that way." 

Solomon hurries back to Tobias. "No problem! If I could just scratch in a teeny-tiny condition . . . got a quill?" 

What would I stick into my prenup? Must attend davening on time except in instances of travel, illness, and hostage situations. Penalty: Wife may purchase a pair of shoes and he must remain silent about lack of storage space.  

Flailing Fists

"What is he doing?" 

Beneath the chuppah, the chosson was in the throes of something between an epileptic fit and an improvised attempt at boxing; face streaked with tears, nose unattractively red, he back-breakingly flung himself back and forth, his fists brandished to the skies above. 

I was terrified that he would head-butt his bride. 

"He's going to do himself an injury!" 

Unable to watch anymore, I kept my eyes on the pattern of the jacket in front of me, memorizing the silver threads against the navy satin background. To think I had been annoyed that I didn't get a good seat.

I wasn't the only woman to find his histrionics embarrassing. "That is very immature," said the lady next to me of the feverish floundering taking place.

He wasn't that bummed ten minutes earlier by the badeken, when he came in with a cartoonishly goofy grin and chattered away to the kallah, taking his sweet time before veiling her. 

I peeked to see if he had slowed down at all, but he was still at it. His kallah stood a good distance away, probably trying to avoid a black eye. I quickly focused my eyes on the fabric before me again, wondering if he would pass out from sheer exhaustion.

"I bet he took notes by his friends' weddings," I noted dryly. "'You call that crying? I'll show you crying!'" 

Not soon enough, the chuppah blessedly concluded. There's going to be a lot of video editing tomorrow.

Just in case it has to be said, one can never go wrong with a little dignity.  

Count Me In

Ma's friend was explaining to her how weddings work in Monroe. Chassidish communities have weddings constantly (obviously), so the people worked out a way to keep the costs to $3,000 with Gemach flowers, the barest minimum when it comes to food, and liquor? Fuhgetaboutit. 

But in quite a few cases, the kallah will be wearing a $3,000 gown from Kleinfeld (with a few alterations here and there). 

That I understand.

Put Down the Camera

I'm trying to get a good look what the chassan looks like by the badeken, but I am being nudged out of the way by quite a few hands attached to cameras. I don't mean the hired photographers;  I mean the friends or family members who decide the dinky quality of their $90 camera is going to upstage professional photos. 

The brother of the chassan doesn't seem to be aware that he is blocking not only the view of the chuppah to the rest of the room, but the people paid to snap pictures.

If one were to would flip through those "very necessary" takes, one would be greeted by mostly blurry white tulle and red eye. 

A PowerShot should only be allowed in a wedding if they will not be used, at all, on the newlyweds. They've got great shots taken by guys who charge a pretty penny per hour.  

There's a reason why it is left to the professionals

So I entreat you: leave your camera at home. Put down the smartphone; your sub-par photos are not needed. So can you step aside, please, and let me see the badeken? Thank you.

Sweet Nothings

My favorite wedding moments are the badeken and the chuppah. While it should be that "seen one, seen them all," I find most touching and inspirational. 

When the groom enters the room, seeing his beloved enframed in blinding white, her eyes fixated only on him, despite his hearty escort of his nearest and dearest. Her father blesses her; his father blesses her; in some happy cases grandfathers will be present for that touching ceremony as well. 

The chosson then leans in, perhaps clasping a single bloom that clashes with the multiplicity of flowers that already drape the room, and whispers a few romantic words in her ear. 

At this wedding, I saw her mouth, "I love you so much," and his identical response. 

Underneath the chuppah, the two gazed adoringly into each others' faces. And yes, they intermittently repeated the same refrain: "I love you. So much." "Love you." "I love you." And that's with my non-existent skills as a lip-reader. 

It didn't take long before I began to squirm. Is there no other poetic way to profess thy severity of feeling? With the length and breadth of the English language before you, that's all you got? 

Consider the hysterical scene in Singin' in the Rain, when the maiden attempt at a talkie implodes because, among other things, Gene Kelly messes with the script, opting instead for "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou."

At the 2:32 mark. 

If contemplative silence is not your thing, make sure to be armed with a plethora of well-established verse or prose so there isn't another awkward Dueling Cavalier situation. 

Such as Shakespeare's 18th Sonnet: 

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

Or just stick to the last two lines. Very swoon-able. 

How about Shir HaShirim? That stuff is awesome. 

Groom to bride: Thou hast ravished my heart, my bride; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one bead of thy necklace. (4:9)

Bride to groom: Until the day breathe, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a gazelle or a young hart upon the mountains of spices. (2:17)

(Don't quote Shir HaShirim willy-nilly, since many of the praises are a little off by our modern frame of reference, like comparing her hair to goats'. But it must have been the equivalent of Hallmark back then.)

Or even song lyrics. 

You're my only sunshine

or

I believe in love, you’re my reason to be 
        — Matisyahu 

To all the love-sick swains out there, there's always copyright infringement. Please.

Guest List

Gals like me, meaning well into their twenties, often do not have a plethora of single friends, but I never considered that to be a negative thing. Often weddings of those who married straight out of high school are tedious because there are, like, fifty girls who are contractually obligated to shriek shrilly and hog the dance floor even if they have two left feet. Ow! That was my toe!  

But sometimes an "older" bride will feel this loss keenly, and try every which way to boost their numbers. 

It may be scandalous, but I really don't keep up with any classmates from high school. None were my close friends, and even before I relocated I never came across them much. But I have noticed a trend, that despite how the years and distance have separated us, they always manage to flush me out with an wedding invitation. 

It's very possible I never exchanged a word with them ever but after this non-relationship I will still receive a request to attend their chassanah. 

One girl was much craftier. She and I talked a lot in school, but we never graduated to full-on "besties." After years of silence she pops out of the blue, emailing me regarding a difference of opinion left as a comment on a website; we launched into a fierce debate. She meekly waved the white flag after a few missives, then switched to cheerful chit-chat; after a month or so, she says she's engaged, then my mailing address is asked for. 

Since I did chew her ear off a lot in school, I felt obligated to attend. I actually had a fun time, even though it felt odd to be wildly dancing at an event where the hostess and I haven't spoken in over five years. I never heard from her again afterward.  

Could she have . . . ? No! Did she strike up an email dialogue when she began to date seriously to ensure another "friend" guest? Hm! That took strategic planning! 

One invitation came from a gal I saw maybe once since ELEMENTARY school, and even then we never talked. I didn't even know what her voice sounded like.

Why would a happy bride want an entourage of strangers on her wedding day? 

Is it so terrible if the dance floor has only those who are close to you, kallahs? Five women to boogy with is enough, believe me. And it's even more memorable to share your joy with the ones of the day-to-day, rather than ancient history. 

Dance with your relatives! Dance with your one close friend! Dance with that lady from shul that likes you! Hold your head high on your wedding day, even if there isn't any shtick!

I can afford to be smug since I do have a large extended family with many female relatives. But if one has a cheerleader section of three, that is more than enough.

Wedding Hair

When it comes to bridal hair, I am all for updos.

Not my favorite.

By frummie weddings, the bride usually hits the dance floor armed with sneakers and proceeds to boogie the night away, which often leads to sweat. Loose, styled waves become limp, clinging to the neck and face in damp, scraggly strands. 

Updos don't have to be harsh. 

Vs.

The top look on Taylor Swift is not as polished as the bottom, but it offers a romantic, evening vibe with less of an "updo" finish. 

Via ProjectWedding.com

If you do opt for down hair, I beg you: No bottle curls.  It's too reminiscent of Little Bo Peep.

When it comes to youngsters by weddings, however, I find that loose hair is more flattering. Updos on kids with glasses are particularly painful. Loose hair styled in waves, with a flower clip holding back one side softens the harshness of glasses (I am anti-headband). 

fancypantsweddings,com

At a recent chassana, the tween-aged cousins of the kallah had their beautiful thick blonde hair blown wavy, without distracting oversized headbands or clips. They bounced on the dance floor looking perfectly natural and appropriate, not stunty.

Children and teenagers look great in long hair. Adults . . . have to tread more carefully.

Semi-Precious Engagement

One day on the train I noticed the girl next to me had on an engagement ring. 

At least, I think it was an engagement ring. The diamond on it was a microscopic fleck. 

I perfectly understand that when it comes to finances, one should always stay within their means, especially when it comes to something unnecessary like an engagement ring. However, where is it written that it must be a diamond? What if, by choosing something more affordable, like semi-precious, one could have a larger stone? 

I love colored stones. I also love large stones. If I had to choose between a huge emerald-cut "something" or a teeny diamond, I'd rather go with the "something."  

The world is filled with a bright, rainbow array of beautiful stones! Yet why do we covet the colorless ones?  ("They sparkle so," Ma says longingly . . .)

Semi-Precious Options

Citrine (quartz family) is my top love. It has a warmth to it that flatters the skin, and looks beautiful with yellow gold.

Garnets' deep red evoke "Her price is far above rubies." 

Peridot is usually an olive green, but can vary in intensity.

Topaz can be clear like diamond, but has a large range of hues and tints. There is Caribbean-beach blue, barely-there green, or citrine-like yellow, just to name a few.  

Blue Topaz

Yellow Topaz

Tourmaline also comes in many shades, and I happen to like their pinks (and I am not even a pink person). Green tourmaline can look similar to an emerald. There are also "ombré" stones that change colors.

Pink Tourmaline

Kunzite is a pale pink-violet. 

Iolite is a rich, deep blue with violet undertones.

Morganite (or "Pink Beryl") is a pale pink. 

Aquamarine (beryl family) is usually turquoise. 

Amethyst (beryl family): purple. 


Green Amethyst (quartz family) is actually regular amethyst that has been treated with heat, morphing the lavender shade to that of a refined barely-there green. 

Pearl: With a variety of prices, quality, and colors, one can have a lot of fun there. 

Alexandrite (chrysoberyl family, which is not the same as beryl): contains more than one shade in its greens and pinks.

Ametrine (quartz family) combines the two shades of amethyst and citrine, hence its name. 

Avail thyself of rainbow hues to profess thy love.

It's MY Day

As a TCM aficionado, one becomes nostalgic for how life used to be not so very long ago. A world where men always wore suits and hats, women donned stoles and gloves, where children were attired in short-shorts even in the most frigid weather. 

Often, when the hero professes his love for the heroine, the two gaze in each other's eyes, and trot off hand in hand to city hall to be wed. 

The marriage of the Earl of Jersey and Virginia Cherrill, Chelsea Register Office, c. July 31, 1937.

Hold the phone. 

That's it? No desperate search for the wedding gown? No panicked screaming at caterers? No frantic fuss over flowers? 

The 1950 film Father of the Bride has Spencer Tracy agonizing over his daughter's "overboard" festivities: a church wedding followed by a reception in the house. Golly.  

When did it come to this? And it's not even the first time a woman feigned illness to come up with a wedding budget! 

We, too, now take it as a given. I confess some perplexity how money can be raised and donated for a one-night affair, and be referred to as "tzedakah." It would be one thing if it was essentials for home, but to raise money for a professional photographer? If a couple is in such dire financial straights, don't they need the funds for something a little more . . . permanent? 

My friend says that all she cares about is the ring. She'll happily get married in a rabbi's study in exchange for the rock of her dreams.

Everyone has their own "rock." What would a woman rather have instead of a party that'll last for a couple of hours? An upgraded apartment? An awesome oven? Savings for future expenses, like, say, children? When "hachnosas kallah" is mentioned in Eilu Devarim, it doesn't say "chassanah"; I believe they meant providing a needy bride with homemaking basics (especially in a time when there was no such thing as takeout). 

What if we downplayed the wedding and made the marriage the focus? Our grandparents most definitely had more muted nuptials. My father's parents were married in a DP camp. Yet in no time at all we have made big shindigs a requirement. 

These aren't my grandparents, but this is a photo of the first wedding in the Heidenheim DP camp, where they lived until the US would let them in.

Reality television is choking with wedding themed shows: Say Yes to the Dress, Bridezillas, My Fair Wedding with David Tutera, Four Weddings, just to name a few. 

Did we come up with this? Or did they?

Gown Selection

A while back I decided to sift through all the Only Simchas! weddings from the dawn of the website. Not to gaze upon the happily marrieds and wistfully dream of a nuptials of my own. Rather, to analyze the gowns. 

Lavan Bridal

The grandmother that gifted me with a genetic desire to slather my face in night cream is also a connoisseur of clothing construction. Despite her current feebleness and flirtation with dementia, when I visit her I immediately twirl, having donned a look strictly for her enjoyment. She then beckons me closer and rubs the fabric between her fingers, eyeing my getup up and down to take in the lines and cut. 

She has so far asked for a few pairs of my shoes. 

So, I shall insist that fetish for garments is another familial aberration, and my clicking through thousands of photos to see the current styles in vogue/available does not mean I am the desperate female seeking a man so she can have "HER DAY." 

Here are a few conclusions (visualize all the photos below with sleeves and proper collars): 

1) Short girls should not wear a-line or mermaid. These looks elongate the torso, making it look as though the lower half of the body begins later, so when the gown hits the floor, the kallah looks as though her legs have been cut off by the knee. The short should stick to ball gowns. (Randy from Say Yes To The Dress will back me on this. Ball gowns make the short look taller). 

2) 3/4 length sleeve wisely. 3/4 sleeves can make the arms look longer, so sometimes the kallah looks as though her hands are brushing her knees. This is not a given, but be aware of that possibility.

3) Careful with the round collar. If the collar fits too snugly on the  neck, let's say while in the process of building up a gown, the front of the dress may not sit right, bunching up. Either opt for a collar that is not so tight on the neckline, or try a square collar. 

4) Please, no empire waists.

5) In terms of details such as bows and paneling to highlight certain areas: sashes should be placed on the waist or lower. No higher. 

That top line is a no-no. The one thing that should be emphasized is the waist, which  looks here deceptively non-existent. 

Waists, drop waists or mermaid tails can have sashes defining that area. But no need to have sashes or paneling above that mark, around the, ahem, chest area, unless the gown has a wide sash/stomacher. 

This concept is better, because it holds in and defines the stomach and waist rather than drawing attention . . . above.

6) If going with the mermaid look, where the gown is tight then flares out, it has to flare. Not remain a closed, tight, ball of fabric. If one wants a more contained look on the bottom, rather seek out an a-line graduated flare on the bottom, rather than mermaid. 

7) No one wants to look back at their wedding gown and think, "Man, that looks soooooo dated." Try to avoid trendy, noticeable details so the grandkids (or your little sister) won't laugh. Like the flared sleeve. It was so sharp in 2002, now, not so much. 

8) Iridescent sequins, I find, do not sparkle classily on a wedding gown; if one likes bling, go with rhinestone details instead. But in any case, a little sparkle goes a long way. 

Ad nauseum.

9) Remember what flatters, whether pear or apple. Just because something looks magnificent on the hanger or on that other kallah does not mean it will suit you. Pears: ball gown. Apples: more of a drop waist, and it may take a bit of looking around to find one that holds in the stomach. 

Peplum for the apple!

10) When in doubt, either:

      Tulle; or

Grace Kelly. 

This dress is sublime. There is no other that can match it.

One last point, even though it doesn't have to do with wedding gowns: 

I am not a fan of this "family wearing white" thing. The kallah's stuck when it comes to her gown color; no need to wear a wedding gown, too. The bridal party should be wearing other colors to liven up the place.

Boooo.

How about some jewel tones instead?