I have a secret talent: I make people get married. Yes, simply through meeting me, men and women alike determine that it is time to settle down, start a family, and paint a picket fence white.
This phenomenon is not recent either. I distinctly remember sitting in my 11th grade AP English class. Chava, a then single high school girl, and I were discussing life beyond the classroom. I casually mentioned that I hoped to be senator by age 35 and follow in the path of Hillary Clinton, minus the whole adulterous husband bit.
Chava laughed and said she hoped to be married for at least 18 years by age 35. I made my usual I Dream of Jeannie motion and stated, “Your wish is my command.” Low and behold Chava got married at 17, and indeed if marital life works out with Meir, her now husband, she will meet her aforementioned girl in fourteen years.
The winter following my first year at college, I visited Israel. I was introduced to a girl named Shira, whose most defining feature was her child bearing hips. I mean, those hips just screamed babies! I couldn’t resist the opportunity to play matchmaker, and I subsequently introduced her to Yoni, a young boy (now Harvard Law School student), on my particular Israel trip. Shira and Yoni are now married with one baby girl, Tamar.
However, this superpower is not limited to Orthodox Jewish coupling. While on the train back from the Hamptons– a trip courtesy of the lovely Lynne– I had the fortune of sitting beside a flamboyantly blonde gay. As is my way, I instantly become best friends with said gay.
He referenced his boyfriend, in the seat beside us, who he had met several years earlier on this very train. And, well, blondie was ready to take the marital plunge. He just wasn’t sure when or where to pop the question. I recommended he do it in the very place they had met– the train. He grinned and said, “I was planning on doing just that.”
Before I could says “grande skinny vanilla latte,” blondie was on his knees, referencing Martha’s Vineyard and white tuxedos. And yours truly had secured her 100th summer wedding invitation. If I agree to attend blondie’s wedding, I will be participating in three weddings in one week– a record, even for me.
The lesson of this brief interlude unrelated to my recap of commencement activities is this: if ever you find your ovaries whirling, call me. I guarantee you’ll be engaged within six months.
I leave you with a visual summary of my weekend in Amagansett: