The Name Game


     A long, long time ago William Shakespeare penned the all too fitting line “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…” and although I am not one to disagree with good ol’ Will, I think it is a pretty small-minded assertion made by a thirteen year old.  A rose would certainly retain its smell if it would have been named begonia instead, but then it would belong to an entirely different family or whatever.  Sure, a rose does not derive its identity solely from its name, it’s just a word, but its name comes from its discovery and its  development, which stem from its familial DNA.  Similarly, a name does not define a person, but my guess is that it is a reflection of their history, of their background, of their family.  I know that if I decided tomorrow to change my name to Princess Consuela Banana Hammock I would still look the same, think the same, have the same friends and family; none of what is important in my life would actually change.  However, what would this name reflect in terms of me and my history?  Nothing.   That name would have no trace of my ancestors’ struggles, travels, and unions.


     We all come from somewhere, and our names are a fascinating clue as to where that somewhere may be.  Tracing back and linking our names with others, and theirs with others still is basically all we have to know where we come from.  It is how I know a certain Tuscan gentleman traveled as a sailor on an English fleet to Cuba, fell in love, and got married in a church I’d never even heard of before.  It is what I looked for  in the very long list released not too long ago to learn if I had any connection to the Sephardim.   It is what anyone studying genealogy goes off of to reach as far back as possible. How can anyone just hit delete on all of that?
     You may wonder what brought on this very thoughtful rant, well, I am glad you asked.  This is yet another thing I have to think about thanks to my project of the year: The Wedding.  Everyone keeps asking what my name “will be,” if I am “keeping” my name and just about everyone seems to have an opinion.  Here’s why this is not as easy as it seems:  First of all, because of how names are used in this country the only way for my future children and I to share a name is for me to take the name of their father, which is totally not cool.  I get it, you cannot possibly keep all of your ancestors’ names because then the list would be endless, but in many other countries you at least get to have your father’s and mother’s last names.  It was totally puzzling when I came here and I was suddenly informed my mother’s last name was no longer part of the name I was legally given at birth, the name on my birth certificate.  So there that went, a part of my identity, the history stemming from my maternal side was suddenly nothing but a memory.  Sure, okay, it sounds dramatic, because I will always remember my mother and her history and her background, but what about the future?  I know, we are still stuck in a patriarchal society and this has been the case for far too long, and I won’t go into a rant about it, but c’mon, we both know that plays a very significant role in all of this.  Still, that is not the point of this exercise.  This is about who I “will be” and what of myself I will be “keeping” for future generations.

     Where I come from is a major part of my life and of who I am.  I want to reflect that wherever I go, from the second I introduce myself.  I don’t want to hide my heritage or my history in any way.  I may have adopted a different religion, moved to a different country, speak a different language, but those things don’t change who I am at my core. Instead these things add to my heritage, to my history.  So I had to take all of this into consideration when asked about changing my name.  Like I said, I want to share a name with my children and I definitely want to reflect the fact that my fiance and I are becoming a family, and with that we are also merging backgrounds and histories.   Still, I can’t help but wonder why can’t men do that same? Probably because even the most evolved man still lives in a patriarchal society and it is not a concept that is even entertained… but I digress.


     I have definitely struggled with this topic, I have thought about it, I have gone back and forth, I can see both sides.  My parents carefully and thoughtfully chose my first name and my last names are an occurrence of life and circumstance.  My surnames reflect so much history and connect me not only to them, but to their parents, and their parents’ parents.  It is a daily reminder of where I come from and the lives that were led before me.  When I introduce myself I am sharing so much history in a brief moment and  I know that so much of that history and that identity is already hard to see through my red hair and my Miami dialect.  I am unwilling to part with anymore of myself.  I am, however, ready to connect my story, my history with someone else’s. I have no doubt that the differences in our backgrounds, in our heritages, in our beliefs will enrich future generations.  Thus adding his name to my name seems like an important symbol of this steadfast belief.  I will gladly carry that weight of complex emotions, of unsettled feminist contradictions within myself, of attaching a name to myself despite not being directly connected to it.  I will learn as much about it as I know of my own and I will pass that down to future generations.  Yet, at the end of the day I “will be” the same person, with the same name my parents gave me and I will be “keeping” my name and the identity attached to it.  But I will also be adding a name, a new aspect of my identity and my history, a symbol of our love, our connection and most importantly  our future.

Shabbat Shalom and, if you are observing, may you have a meaningful fast.

If I Ran the Circus


Planning a wedding often feels like being amidst a dizzying, exciting, loud, colorful circus.  It’s part balancing act and part lion tamer; I have to balance the interests and and desires of others with our own,  I have to keep the roars of excitement of others at bay so that I may hear our own, often much quieter, voices.  All of my time and energy is going into putting together a few hours of what is basically seen as entertainment.  Every tiny aspect of wedding planning snowballs and I can’t help but think that a lot comes from expectations that have been created by the very industry.


I have been spending a lot of time on a very wedding-centric website so I can figure out how to organize a wedding without losing myself.  We wanted something very small, a deeply meaningful ceremony followed by a short and nontraditional brunch gathering.  Most of that has basically been thrown out of the window.  It was supposed to be very small, but that turned out to be generally hurtful and impossible, so now we are aiming for small.  It was supposed to be here,  then it was there and now it is at a different place altogether.  My dress was going to be something off the rack from Nordstrom (or maybe even Nordstrom Rack), as were there bridesmaids dresses, and the Groom and his groomsmen were going to wear suits.  Now I am wearing a white gown (which was quite a find, so that kind of worked out), after what felt like endless discussions and changes the bridesmaids are wearing bridesmaids dresses (which I hope are well within budget), and the Groom and his groomsmen are wearing tuxes because it was quite difficult to coordinate.   Open bar or no bar, maybe a limited bar with specialty drinks,  themes, floral arrangements, bouquets, programs, vows, bands, music, growing guest list, invitations, dietary restrictions, it is all exhausting and expensive and it all feels increasingly meaningless, who is it all for?


As I have undoubtedly mentioned before I never thought I would get married.  It wasn’t something I realistically considered and eagerly planned for.  I don’t say this to sound cool, or detached, or evolved, or whatever.  I say this as a reflection of my current relationship.  I never wanted to get married (for the sake of a wedding or to just be married or whatever), but I unquestionably want to marry Greg.  I love him, I love us, I don’t need to think twice about interweaving my life with his forever, I am actually eager to experience all of the messy, happy, complicated bits.  So naturally, I think,  that’s what our wedding should be.  We should be making those vows before G-d, our immediate family, our closest of friends, and celebrating the moment however we see fit; no expectations, no meaningless traditions, no pretense, just unconstrained love.  I can only hope that there are no hurt feelings, no disappointment, no bitterness as a result of following our hearts.


   On and on the rain will fall like tears from a star, like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say how fragile we are, how fragile we are
     For the last few weeks I have been working on some whiny blog about wedding planning. The draft is still sitting and I am sure it will eventually see the light of day, but something more relevant was stirring inside me, a feeling, a thought, I just couldn’t shake. Lately I have been thinking of just how ridiculously happy I am.  I am deeply in love with someone who is beyond amazing, I don’t even really know what words to use to describe how I feel about him and how I feel about us.  This pushed me to think of what my life would be like without him, without us, with just me again.  I wondered if I would rather never have known his love or the bond we share or if it would be better to have had it for whatever too short period of time.  I honestly struggled with that horrifying thought, but at the end of the day I cannot imagine not relishing in every single moment we share together, for however long the powers that be choose that to be.
     I know, it’s crazy to jump from the best to the worst, but in the blink of an eye it could be true.  I can’t fathom my life without him by my side, we are a unit now, two people so intertwined that we are almost one; we share everything, words, thoughts, space, time, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  To some it seems excessive, suffocating, but to us it is perfect.  We spent a lifetime without one another, hoping that we would find someone we could feel this way about, and now it is just so easy to be together.  So basically my life would suck without him, that’s the simplest and most honest way it can be phrased.  I think about it often, which is probably not normal, but I have my reasons.  I mean, it is probably impossible to be this happy forever, right?  Regardless of how long I have patiently waited and how nonexistent my love life was before him this life cannot be permanent, I cannot possibly be that lucky.   And then something terrible happened this weekend.
     I am very close to my aunt, my mom’s sister.  Despite not growing up anywhere near her or even really knowing her, in the last few years I have formed a very strong bond with her and her lovely family, beyond just that I-love-you-because-you’re-family thing.  She’s amazing, strong but vulnerable, smart, funny, kind.  She is an all-around great woman, a great mom, a great wife.  Her life had fallen into place, she found that special kind of love, she gave birth to two astonishing daughters, who have turned into strong, beautiful, smart teenagers, she was making plans and living life just like the rest of us.  Then on Sunday, in the blink of an eye, her husband was gone.  He was an incredible man, an incredible husband, an incredible father, an incredible chef.  He was a happy-go-lucky dreamer I got to spend too little time with, but I felt so glad to have as part of my family.  The second I got the call I fell right into her shoes, it was a fear I had been irrationally struggling with in my own life for some time now. I knew, and yet I couldn’t fathom, exactly how she felt, how her daughters felt, and my heart shattered.  It isn’t fair, it just isn’t fair.
     My aunt and her husband had that special kind of love not everyone gets to experience in a lifetime; they loved each other earnestly, deeply, passionately, completely.  There are no words I can say to her or my cousins that will even begin to help them feel whole again, that can help them heal, that can help them continue to live their lives with the same sparkle they always carried.  I understand well that is now something they will always feel the weight of, and we will all help them carry that weight, but that won’t fix it.  It is heart-wrenching to think this happened to them, and I truly wish it never had, I wish it was a nightmare we could all wake from and shake-off while sharing some homemade honey beer.  The only thing I can say is that I am thankful for the life he had, for the fact that he was in our family, for the love he had and expressed for my aunt, for the unbelievable father he was to his daughters.  I know that doesn’t fix it or bring peace, it wouldn’t to me if I was in her shoes, but during this time I hope it can provide some comfort that it is better to have had him in our lives for this time, than not at all.  There is no rhyme or reason for what happened, there is no excuse or explanation, it is awful and unfair, but I hope that someday the memory of his love for her, of his jokes, of his antics, can once again bring a smile to her face and not just bring pain to her heart.
     Life is unsettlingly fragile and we must love each other, deeply and loudly, while we are here.

My Big Fat Jewban Wedding


I don’t get the ‘party’ element of a wedding, it is just not in my nature to be excited about a room full of people drinking where the music is too loud to talk and the faces are too many to remember.  I like casual, relaxed, and limited social settings.  I love spending time with friends, listening to their lively rants and sharing some of my own.  I like deep and meaningful relationships and exchanges where I can hear my thoughts and their words.  I like knowing everyone in the room and having the time to have a valuable exchange with them.  This unquestionably expands to my wedding day.  I want a room full of people happy to share the moment with us, a room full of people we know and love who won’t care about the shade of the tablecloth or the temperature of the salmon.  I want laughter to ring louder than the music.

I always thought we would just go down to the courthouse and be married, since I’ve never really understood weddings except for legal purposes.  Furthermore, that way we could avoid the awkwardness of planning a nontraditional and totally uncool reception,  but after a reasonable discussion between two attorneys we reached a reasonable settlement.  If it was to take place, my fiance and I discussed our wedding in similar terms.  We both wanted something small and meaningful and we agreed that the ceremony was the most important part.  We both continually and tirelessly emphasized the importance of the ceremony, of our vow before G-d and our loved ones to be together for the rest of our lives.  Without that, I figured, we might as well walk down to City Hall during our lunch hour and be legally bound.  Still, neither of us knew absolutely anything about Jewish weddings.  I asked Greg, hoping he could be a helpful resource and as far as I can recall he could only offer a chuppah, some wine and the breaking of the glass.  “When do we say our vows?”  I wondered, he shrugged.  “When do we kiss?”  I asked, he googled.  We were hopeless, so I turned to the only resource I could think of: books!

My sister sent me books, my friend who had just gotten married sent me books, and then I rushed to the library for more books (I owe $30 in overdue fees).  Here’s some of what I learned:

The Jewish wedding ceremony is a two-parter, consisting of the erusin and the nesuin. The erusin, or betrothal, was a ceremony that traditionally took place about a year before the second part of the wedding ceremony and it is sort of the equivalent of a modern engagement.  Traditionally the erusin begins with the hakafot, the act of the bride circling the groom seven times to set aside sacred space and ward off evil spirits.  Thereafter the groom says Haray at m’kudeshet li b’ataba’at zu k’dat Moshe v’Yisrael (Behold, you are consecrated to me with this ring, according to the tradition of Moses and Israel.) and then gives his bride something of value (now we use a ring, and halakha states that wedding ring must be a pure, solid band, so that its value may be easily assessed). However, traditionally the groom presented the bride with a coin and not a ring.   Similarly a traditional wedding custom in Spain consisted of the groom presenting the bride with 13 coins known as arras, which represent his commitment to support her.   By following these formulaic steps the woman was thus set apart exclusively for that one man for the purpose of procreation.  Hooray! 

The second part of the ceremony is the nesuin (from the verb “to carry”) and it is in vast contrast from the legal nature of erusin. This is where love, spirituality, and connection to G-d enter the picture with joy and the timeless quality of two people loving each other.  It begins with the sheva brachot, the seven blessings and end with the breaking of the glass.  The latter custom has a plethora of fascinating explanations, from medieval superstitions that the shattering of the glass would ward off evil spirits to the more common interpretation that the shattering of the glass is a reminder of the destruction of the Temple, a reflection that even in moments of greatest joy we remember the sadness and lack of wholeness in the world.  My personal favorites are that a broken glass cannot be mended and likewise, marriage is irrevocable and it is a transforming experience that leaves individuals forever changed and also said to represent that the couple’s happiness will be as plentiful as the shards of glass (or that their children will be as plentiful as the shards of glass).   Traditionally the following song is sung after the glass is shattered: “Siman tov u’mazel tov, mazel tov siman tove (3x) Y’hei lanu Y’hei lanu, y’hei lanu, u’lichol Yisrael (2x)” (It is good and fortunate sign for us and for all Israel).  Interestingly enough it is also an Italian wedding tradition to break a glass when the ceremony is complete and to then count the shards of glass that remain to indicate the number of years the couple will stay happily married. Mazel Tov!

The Jewish wedding ceremony is to take place under a chuppah. According to The Creative Jewish Wedding book by Gabrielle Kaplan-Mayer “throughout Jewish history the chuppah has been most commonly interpreted as a symbol of the matriarch and patriarch, Sarah and Abraham. It is said that Sarah and Abraham’s tent was open on all sides to let guests know that they were always welcome to come in. Because both Sarah and Abraham were thought of as having special relationships with God, their tents marked a sacred space where God’s presence could be felt upon entering. So, too, in contemporary weddings, the chuppah serves to create a sacred space, both open and private. It is open for all the bride and groom’s friends and relatives who are present to witness their covenant to each other. At the same time it is private, creating a feeling of warmth and intimacy that surrounds the special couple.”  Another pivotal element of the Jewish wedding is the  ketubah. Ketubah means “writing” or “written” and came to refer to the written marriage contract that is signed and read as part of the Jewish wedding, it traditionally contained the obligations of the husband to the wife, but currently can describe just about anything the couple wishes to include.

The we could be married by one o’clock thought still crosses my mind sometimes on very stressful days, it would be so simple, so fast, and then so over.  Yet, after reading countless books on wedding traditions I can’t help but want to incorporate so much history and meaning into the day we make that forever vow.

Flowers, Platters, & Cakes… Oh My…


OyWedding Planning is… a full-time job… an overwhelming task… exhausting.  Every time I have started to plan over the last few months I have found something more pressing (fun) to do.  We started new jobs, we got an apartment, and in all of the we-are-all-grown-up excitement we had completely forgotten to plan our wedding… and then we were seven months out with only a ceremony space and an officiant to speak of.  Granted, that’s probably all we really need to be married, but it is not even remotely close to what we need to have a wedding.


Pinterest had definitely become a close friend, from the comfort of my couch wedding planning seemed like a breeze, all I had to do was ‘Pin It’ and everything seemed to come together.  Then I realized I was totally wasting my time, one Pin at a time.  Sure, Pinterest can be a great resource for ideas, as long as there’s some sort of focus.  However, looking back at my wedding board it was all over the place, and very little truly spoke to what our wedding was about.  So my fiance and I sat down, we talked about our priorities and what would feel both meaningful and comfortable.  Yet, that seemed to be the easy part.  We made decisions, but something generally got in the way.  There were a lot of arguments (not between the two of us) and a lot of strong dissenting opinions (again, not between the two of us).  Our florist shrugged and told us it was par for the course, but why did it have to be that way?  My fiance cared about having a meaningful ceremony, that is what mattered to us both.  Thereafter we wanted to celebrate our union, the blessed event commemorating our great luck in finding each other, with family and friends so close they were practically family, but that seemed inconsistent with the opinions of many who wanted a lavish wedding with an endless invite list.


As you may know I never really dreamt about a wedding, so I don’t really get all of the hoopla.  I don’t judge anyone who spends hours oohing and ahing centerpieces (okay, maybe I do a little bit), but I just don’t get it.  However, knowing G-d led me to my soulmate and solidifying that commitment before loved ones in our Temple moves me.  I want a deeply meaningful ceremony, a ceremony that reflects who we are as individuals and who we are as a couple, a ceremony which reflects that we make each other better people and that we are better together.   I am eager for that moment, I am eager to look into Greg’s eyes and vow my commitment to him for eternity, to assure him with that one look that I will be with him through all of life’s difficulties.  So I have labored over Jewish wedding books, I have googled wedding traditions from our varied backgrounds, and I have considered what would be meaningful to us both.


Some days I feel like we have made great progress, some days I feel like we have taken ten steps back, but if I just focus on putting together a meaningful wedding I know that things will fall into place and those near and dear to us will feel the joy in our union and have a great time.  There is a Yiddish saying “No ketubah was ever signed without an argument.”  As Anita Diamant points out in The New Jewish Wedding “[t]he result of all of this learning, choosing, and even arguing is much more than a glorious party.  As rites of passage, weddings clarify and express a great deal about the people under the huppah.  A wedding is a public announcement and demonstration of who you are as a couple.  When you draw on Jewish tradition -borrowing, revising, even rejecting, in essence struggling to create meaning with it- the tradition becomes yours.”




A Long December…


…it’s been a long December and there’s reason to believe, maybe this year will be better than the last…

To the Counting Crows it may just have been a long December, but for me it feels like 2013 has been a very long year.  It has been a year of ups and downs, I cannot recall a more eventful year in my twenty-something years on this planet.  On the ups list I can note passing the bar, moving in with my fiance, getting a job, getting another job, getting yet another job, completing my conversion process, getting engaged, celebrating my grandfather’s birthday by his side.  On the downs list I can note studying for the bar, taking the bar, juggling three part- (but really full) time jobs, still living at home, having my grandfather hospitalized for several weeks, having my grandfather released from the hospital with complications, having my heart inexplicably and unexpectedly broken, still having my grandfather remain in a not-quite-so-great medical condition, my Finch going from fine to paralyzed overnight.

Over the last week this has really taken a toll on me.  It truly has been too much to handle.  The straw that broke the camel’s back was last weekend when Finch had to undergo emergency surgery.  I have been tired, I have been working long hours, and generally spreading myself to thin professionally, but my personal life was okay.  Thursday morning my fiance flew home to spend Thanksgiving with his family and I stayed in Miami with mine.  Everything seemed  fine as we went to have a very small gathering at my uncle’s.  When we returned Finch didn’t want to eat, I figured he was being temperamental since his dad had left him and his cranky grandfather was in town.  I took him for a walk and we all went to bed.   Friday morning, however, he was still down.  I inevitably began to worry, especially when he refused to go for a walk.  My sister and I had planned a fun weekend of wedding planning, but I couldn’t even think about it.  We rushed to the vet and he told us Finch could have some back problems.  He x-rayed his back to be sure and explained something about his discs being close together, but told us that the x-ray would be sent to some sort of specialist.  He recommended 4 weeks of crate rest and prescribed some pain killers, he also gave him a shot for the pain.  I was puzzled,  I never thought Finch had back problems and I honestly believed the vet was wrong.  Finch seemed to be feeling better when we got back, although his right leg seemed to be bothering him.  I dismissively assumed it was numbness from the pain.  That night Finch ate dinner and I happily thought everything would be okay.

Saturday was a nightmare I still expect to wake from.  I woke up with Finch at my feet and greeted him warmly.  He stretched and tried to get up, but it wasn’t working.  I didn’t understand what could be the problem so I carried him down to the floor.  He didn’t stand.  I encouraged him to, thinking his leg may still be numb, but neither of his legs seemed to be responding.  I freaked out.  I have never felt such sense of hopeless panic.  I immediately called the vet.  He wasn’t available.  He called me a few minutes later.  He told me the specialist had looked at the x-ray and that the problem was really severe.  When I told him he couldn’t walk he told me that was a huge problem and that he would need emergency surgery that day.  He told me I could wait until Monday, for a cheaper surgeon, but that he didn’t recommend it.  Instead he gave me the number of a colleague, a neurologist, who would be very expensive, but very good.  I called him immediately.  It was his day off so I had to wait for a call back.  I wept.  The neurologist called me back right away, he explained the gravity of the situation and the expense I would incur.  He was straightforward, which I appreciated, and explained how we could pay for the surgery.  He gave me fifteen minutes to think about it.  I got off the phone and cried.  I cried for about five minutes feeling utterly alone and hopeless.  I couldn’t afford to spend $6,500 on anything, regardless of how much I wanted to (my fiance and I live at home with my mom, our finances are less than stellar, and our school debt is generally insurmountable).  I tried to reach my fiance, but he wouldn’t answer.  I talked to my mom, my dad, my sister.  I took a deep breath and applied for a Care credit card.  It’s basically a credit card for medical needs, the neurologist recommended it as the best option.  My baby is only about three or four years old, I love him more than anyone can imagine, I could not give up or risk his life at the hands of a less skilled doctor.  I got approved and called the neurologist right away.  He asked me to come in within the hour for a check-up and an MRI if necessary.

When we met I was sitting on the floor with Finch.  Finch seemed scared, confused, and frustrated.  I imagine he didn’t understand how he lost his ability to walk overnight.  I couldn’t stop crying, but he talked to me calmly and explained everything thoroughly.  When he told my mom that we would have to leave Finch with him until Wednesday she wept.  Saturday he kept me informed as to everything that was happening.  The surgery took about four hours and he explained that the damage was extensive.  His regular vet checked in with me and told me it was the worst case he’d seen.  I still don’t understand how it happened.

Finch is home now.  He won over everyone at the neurologist’s office.  The receptionist called him “a little rock-star.”  Every single day he seems to be improving.  I can sleep again for the first time in a week.  None of this process has been easy, but it has unquestionably been worth it and I am reminded every time I see him gallop happily, his wide ears flopping in the wind.

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A Love Letter to Sicily


“Although the state wants to protect autonomy, these circumstances and precedent warrant special care and preference for the child’s well being. The state should remember that the focus is not solely on an adult’s ability to live freely but that the child’s interests have been a focus of the courts in the past.”


It happened in the fall of 2010 during 2L year.  We both registered for and regularly attended the same Family Law class, but sat on opposite sides of the room.  We both randomly chose the same group assignment, Exercise #3, but didn’t meet until a couple of weeks before our assignment was due.  It was a four person group (although once we met it felt like a two person group).  A few days before our Fall Break (generally occurring in October, about a month before Thanksgiving Break) we coordinated by email to meet after class.  I didn’t know what he looked like so I waited for the classroom to empty out.  He did the same. A blue-eyed brown-haired boy stood a few rows across from me and kind of smiled, I smiled back.  He walked over to me and we quickly began to coordinate the details of our assignment, completely forgetting there were two members of the group who were not present.  I had plans to visit my sister in California over Fall Break, so I told him to email me to work out the details.  He made a couple of jokes, closing with something about sending smoke signals.  I laughed.  He nervously gathered his things and left the room.  I was utterly confused.  When I got to California my sister’s wi-fi was not working and I was freaking out.  My outdated Blackberry Curve did not access my email with the ease of my current iPhone and I was expecting his email.  She did everything possible to make it work, but even when she succeeded there was no email.  He never emailed me.


When we returned from break the four of us decided to meet once again to figure out the assignment.  We met at the Bricks on a sunny South Florida afternoon and the four of us quickly came up with a plan: I would do the research and the detailed outline and he would do the writing, the others would do editing and presentation.  The other two members, satisfied with the discussion, immediately left and he and I stayed behind.  We talked, he tried to make me laugh, and before I knew it the sun had set.  I told him I had plans for the afternoon, but he never let me leave.  We talked for hours about nothing and everything; I ditched my plans and sat by his side, there was just something about him.

What followed was a few days of awkward assignment emails, which turned into a few weeks of very entertaining Facebook and AIM chatting, mostly about the insufferable group project, class, and law school experience. On December 4, 2010 I awoke to what seemed like a relatively harmless message in my inbox, which he’d sent at 3:11am: “Family review session? Reunite the group?”  I definitely was not ready to even begin studying for family law so I tried to say no, but he talked me into it.  We planned to meet on the Bricks the next day and work from 9:00-10:00am.  When I arrived only he was there, but I didn’t think anything of it.  I figured once again our other group members had failed to make an appearance, but in reality he had never reached out to the other two.  I had been tricked!  We “studied” by making each other laugh and getting to know each other until late in the evening, but we were definitely no more prepared for our Family Law final; still, it was well worth it.  We kept in touch, but then the semester ended and he went home to Ohio.  For about a month we didn’t really keep in touch.

The New Year began and classes were about to resume when he reemerged.  He asked if my Family Law was what I expected, I said it wasn’t, but it was sufficient.  We exchanged a couple of messages before seeing each other in school.  I had dropped the Copyright class that he coincidentally was taking, so we didn’t have a class together.   Still, we chatted on AIM during classes and after classes.  He often hinted that I join him at a weekly event held by our school, not knowing if he was asking in some sort of group thing I never went.  Finally, he officially asked me to join him for Beer at the Rat, the weekly event, and I consented.


The first time I went to meet him for Beer at the Rat he was leaving to get some books, he assured me he would return, but then it started to rain and I left.  The second time we met for Beer at the Rat it was a late Thursday evening in early February and his parents were coming into town.  We met at the Rat and talked forever, it was pretty late when he realized he had to go.  He lived really close to school and had walked there, but I offered to give him a ride back.  As we walked to my car we talked about attraction,  he had some pretty cliched notions about what women were looking for or attracted to, I tried to express my attraction to him in my dissent.  I don’t think it worked.  We talked about Star Wars and having coffee next time.

Friday or Saturday night he messaged me on AIM, I don’t recall the exchange but it led to us meeting for coffee after he dropped his parents off at the hotel.  We walked around looking for something other than a Starbucks, finding nothing we got milkshakes at Johnny Rockets.  When everything in the area began to shut down he asked me to his apartment for coffee, I accepted.  We talked for hours and he eventually even asked for my number.  He walked me back to my car and I was sure he would finally kiss me, he didn’t.  It was about five in the morning and we sat in my car, it seemed we still had a lot to talk.  I didn’t leave until about seven that morning, we had spent almost ten hours together, talking.  I was smitten and confused, not even a kiss?  I had never met someone quite like him.  We spent a few nights texting nonstop, and a few days before Valentine’s Day he finally kissed me.

Fast forward three very happy, very complicated, very eventful, very rewarding years and that very sweet blue-eyed brown-haired boy, who I have seen grow into a confident and admirable man, has asked to be my husband, to share my life with him, to have a family together.  Yes,  I will be very lucky to be his wife, to live, grow, and learn by his side, to raise puppies and babies together, to hold his hand as we walk aimlessly, to never run out of things to talk about, to wake up beside him every single day for the rest of my life.  Yes.


Shabbat Shalom

* First three photos courtesy of University of Miami.