It. Was. Time.
We'd been together for seven years. I was in my mid-30's. I wanted to get married and have one kid.
Years of hard work and commitment and finally he said: YES. He would have a child with me and, therefore we could get married.
The planning began and seven months later, on March 23, 1991, we did it.
We went small: in our apartment, 50 guests, dinner prepared by me (I LOVE TO COOK) and a chocolate chocolate chocolate cake made by an amazing baker. As neither of us believe in religion, we had a judge come to officiate. For the dinner, I arranged the tables and seating so that there were family and friends at each table that had something key in common that would generate interesting conversations. We had Harvard University students dressed formally who served and cleaned up.
That’s what it was all about for us: intimate, great food, amazing wine (selected by my husband) and connected conversation. Background music was a jazz playlist created by my husband.
Looking back, this is the moment when I fell apart inside and that affected EVERYTHING:
My mother saying to me, on the morning of my wedding:
“You’re lucky your father and I are here.
That are you are being married by a judge and not a rabbi…
and what Jewish girl doesn’t have her wedding catered?"