This past Shabbos we planned my Shabbos sheva brochos. Things were going swimmingly – we had the venue, we had put up all the relatives, and were trying to decide between a shul and an ad hoc living-room minyan.
Then, self-consciously, we all chorused: “Well, maybe we should wait ‘til Bad4 actually has a date, before we make these plans.”
After all, we don’t want to become one of those people.
I mean, when you’re young, it’s okay to dream about your white wedding. You doodle gowns in the margins of your notes and note flower arrangements in the florist shop windows and discuss entrée choices with your cousins at family weddings. (Or, in my case, you declare that you’re getting married in white denim in Central Park.) But at some point you cross a line. And your wedding planning goes from producing indulgent smiles to getting sad shakes of the head. You have officially become a Pathetic Older Single.
A Pathetic Older Single (POS) is in denial. Not about his/her chances of getting married – because people get married at all ages. But rather, about his/her chances of immediate marriage. The POS is always planning for that wedding, but rarely has a date. The POS isn’t just prepared for the advent of marriage, but is living life as if about to take on a permanent roommate – tomorrow.
Now, I know I’m still young and can count on indulgent smiles for the next couple of years at least. But how do I know when I’ve crossed the line?
Never-before divulged secrets: I keep a growing file of my favorite recipes on my hard drive. Whenever I see a clever housekeeping tip, it winds up in a neighboring file. I find child-rearing ideas intriguing. I’m even absorbed by the waiting-room magazine articles about rekindling the romance in your marriage.
I never cook. I have no house to keep. I hardly ever see anyone under the age of 16, let alone raise them. I have never had a romance to rekindle. What’s wrong with me?
Do I want to get into the habit of seeing everything in light of marriage? I mean, if I buy a pot for a summer out in Hicksville, why can’t I bring it back and say “Hey, Mom, here’s a spare pot”? Why do I say, “Hey, Mom, this is for my trousseau, but you can use it until I get married”?
It’s a slippery slope.
I can’t help but wonder if there’s a cut-off date of which I should be aware – some age after which you can (and should) no longer discuss your wedding. The age at which people think your tuition fund would be better off invested in an IRA or a vacation in New Zealand – and you should be wondering if maybe they’re right.
If there is such an age, can someone let me know? Because we still haven’t figured out what to do about shacharis, and I need to know how much longer we have to puzzle over it.