Hitting the Tree

When Hilarious & Gifted, my youngest son, was learning to ride a bike, we set him up in our back yard, which was long, wide, and grassy, and had one tree growing in its southeast quadrant. Our plan was to let him learn and fall where the grass was soft and there were no obstacles to hurt him, except for that one tree, which was so easy to avoid.

And which, for some reason, he kept crashing into.

We started him in the northeast corner, and pushed him towards the southwest. He pedaled furiously, eying the tree with excitement and dread, all the while heading directly towards it, as though it were pulling him like a magnet. And bang! he crashed, and bang! he fell.

We tried the northwest corner, pushing him southwest. Bang! and bang! again. Due south, due center, due east, due west--no direction or destination made a difference; the tree called to him and he collided with it every single time. Brilliant & Kind, his amused and frustrated older brother, tried coaching him ("Don't look at the tree!" "Stop before you hit the tree!") to no avail. Finally we gave up, and Hilarious & Gifted took his bike out to the hard, unforgiving street, teeming with cars, cats, and ruthless neighbor children, got on and rode away. It was impossible to understand.

So, too, is it impossible to understand that whenever I am in any situation where decorum is required, I develop a kind of spontaneous Tourette's Syndrome, and find myself violating the very taboo (usually a simple, understandable taboo) that had been clearly outlined in advance. I either blurt out something inappropriate, call someone important by the wrong name, or knock over something fragile or permeable with an unnecessary, emotive gesture. Like hitting that one tree in the yard, the fear of doing the wrong thing is what causes me to do the wrong thing, every single time.

Which is why, when Perfect Man and I were invited to his cousin's wedding--a lavish, Modern Orthodox Jewish wedding in New York City--I apologized to him in advance.

"I will embarrass you," I said. "I'll kiss someone I'm not supposed to touch, or dance during some somber chant, get the giggles during the ceremony, or something. It makes me sad to think about how sorry you will be that you brought me."

"Honey, you'll be fine," he said, "There will be a lot of other people there who don't understand the tenets of Modern Orthodox Judaism. Honestly, there's a lot of stuff about it I don't know myself. Just relax, and have fun, and everything will be fine." Then he added, "Also, maybe just don't talk or move while we're there." It was supposed to be a joke, but I think he was serious.

Anyway, last weekend, we went. The event took place in a big, beautiful riverfront hall. Perfect Man guided me into a room where the bride was, beautiful and elegant, sitting in a chair in the center of the floor. Her mother stood next to her.

"The bride's in here," he said, handing me a scotch to help me relax. "And the groom's in another room. They haven't seen each other for a week. You can't kiss the groom. Don't touch the groom. I don't even know if you should talk to the groom. Probably, you shouldn't. I think during the ceremony, we're seated on separate sides of the room. One side for men, other side for women. You stay on the women's side."

"Got it." I said, slurring slightly, because my scotch was gone already. "The women's side."

"You're doing great!" Perfect Man said, handing me another scotch.

The room was filled with gorgeously adorned women in gossamer and Gucci. I kept my mind busy by counting the number of Christian Louboutin shoes I saw, until I counted the same silver snake skin pair twice, lost track, and gave up.

Then Perfect Man's sister and brother came over to chat with us. They were kind and considerate about my shiksa anxiety, assuring me over and over again that I was doing great. "Just keep your eye on the nearest exit," Perfect Man's brother said jokingly. "And if something goes wrong, head for it."

And then, a burst of sound from a double door, and the crowd parted. A line of men in suits--presumably the groom's closest friends and family--came through the room, marching, clapping and singing, with the groom being carried along in their stream. They were bringing him to see his bride. I couldn't see exactly what happened when they stopped at her chair; I think he lifted her veil to confirm it was her. Then they all turned and began to march out again, clapping, singing, and passing by us on the way out the door.

And that's when Perfect Man and his brother decided their active participation was required. With a look of alert determination on their faces, they dutifully hopped in at the end of the line, clapping and marching, their yarmulkes bobbing in time. Perfect Man's sister and I immediately noticed that no other men in the room were joining in this way. "What the hell are those two doing?" we asked each other, and I took a step to tell them I didn't think they were supposed be in this march. But before I could say anything, Perfect Man turned and shook his finger at me, saying with stern authority, "Men Only! No Women!" Then he turned away again and marched out the door.

I looked at his sister and the two of us started laughing so hard we were crying. I was so relieved to not be the ridiculous one, and it was so entertaining to see someone else being the ridiculous one, the emotional release was extraordinary. And all of a sudden, it hit me: if all of my social faux pas over the last four decades have provided even a fraction of this kind of relief and amusement to others, then the discomfort and humiliation I have suffered along the way has been more than worth it. What a great feeling, to be so completely released from remorse and regret!

And I would have given a hundred dollars to see what happened when the groom and his closest friends and family got back to their room and there were these two guys no one knew standing there at the end of the line, these two guys who, as they slowly began realizing that they had misjudged the situation, were maybe winding down their clapping a little, maybe turning their march into more of a shuffle, and maybe, just maybe, both starting to look for the nearest exit.