We are invited to a wedding! At very short notice because it has had to be postponed multiple times, but — astonishingly — we are free. The diary has gone from months of barren pages like the Arctic tundra to promising signs of growth here and there — a book launch, the cinema, dinner out — but clearly a wedding is on a much higher stratum of excitement. I’m almost grateful for the short notice period, otherwise the anticipation might be too much for me. During the various lockdowns, my twice-weekly trip to our local Waitrose transformed itself from a chore to a thrilling outing (out of the house without having to go on yet another walk! Treats in shiny packaging! I’m basically a four-year-old kid), so the bar for excitement has been considerably lowered.
I realise that, for a start, the wedding will require the de-cobwebbing and putting on of a frock. I am happy to hurl aside my tired track-pants, as I quite like dressing up, but I am not looking forward to wearing tights. Putting on sheer hosiery takes care and patience – think making artisan sausages and trying not to tear the casings – and I have neither.
For months and months, my daily dressing routine has come in at under a minute: underwear, track-bottoms, long-sleeved t-shirt. But now, with tights, ‘magic’ pants (doing double-duty — stopping my tights falling down and holding in the lockdown-stomach), dress, jewellery, make-up, it takes almost a whole hour. Did it used to take this long? And how much make-up is too much? I haven’t worn foundation for over 18 months. Am I blended? Or will I be walking around looking as if I have donned a mask, with a tell-tale line where foundation ends and reality begins?
The wedding is being held in a beautiful old barn. Inside it looks very pretty, with tightly serried ranks of gold seats and a gorgeous chupah bedecked with white flowers. The Husband is more cavalier about rules than I am, and he and The Teen have been far more questioning of pandemic guidance while I have ploughed the lonely furrow of following the rules to the letter, which has often led to conflict. But now, the prospect of being rammed tight indoors with maybe 140 people seems suddenly unnerving and he suggests we move from the middle where we have just sat down to the very back row near the open doors (we are early as we do not operate on JMT ourselves — Jewish Mean Time — so it’s still almost empty) for more air-flow.
BC (Before Corona, not that other thing…), social etiquette at simchas was a doddle. If you saw a friend or relative, you leaned in for the double-kiss. But now, we tiptoe through an uncharted minefield. Husband, having been socially starved, tends to leap in and hug, while I favour the pause-and-ask approach. A cousin arrives and he starts to zoom in when she says, “We’re being really careful” (rightly, in my view), and he has to backtrack a step. I have taken to blowing kisses instead — not too hard now! It’s better to mime the blowing otherwise you might be puffing Covid aerosols over everyone, in which case you might as well go straight in for a full snog.)
The rabbi has clearly been forewarned that the guests will be a mix of Jews and non-Jews, so he offers just the right amount of explanation at various points, though at the end of the ceremony, when he explains why we smash a glass, husband and I turn to each other and disagree, quibbling over our own preferred interpretations, but then it wouldn’t be a proper Jewish wedding if you didn’t take issue with at least one thing the rabbi says, would it? Then we notice a second rabbi, which we assume is some piece of frummery we don’t bother with in Reform. Afterwards, we learn that the main rabbi is still under supervision so not yet allowed to perform wedding ceremonies on his own. Still, he does a very good job and is clearly audible, which is key. We once went to a wedding where we spent the whole time turning to each other, saying “What? What was that?” Afterwards, The Husband, trying to be helpful, went up and said, “Great service, but I have to say we really couldn’t hear you for most of it.” Full marks for courage, zero marks for diplomacy (this is true of him in general).
Afterwards, we stand outside in the gardens, glugging Pimms (so nice to be out, would it be wrong to want a refill after 30 seconds?) while remaining on high alert for waitresses bearing platters of canapés we can ambush, especially as they include mini-latkes, the husband’s all-time favourite canapé. Having endured months of back-to-back Zoom meetings, it is so good to see him out and about, doing what he does best — being with other people, talking and laughing. And even I, strange anti-social hermit that I am (lockdown was so much easier for me than for him) have to admit I am enjoying myself. The bride looks beautiful and the rest of us have scrubbed up pretty well considering that we must all be very rusty at it. I may lose consciousness soon as my magic pants are holding me in so tightly that I can barely breathe, but it’s worth it.
Claire’s latest novel, A Second-Hand Husband (Boldwood Books), is available now.
Twitter: @clairecalman
Website: clairecalman.co.uk
