I have an absolutely adorable nephew named Nathan and we just returned from Toronto, Ontario, where we attended his Bar Mitzvah. Now, I hate to admit this, but I am one of those people who simply does not enjoy these kinds of events.
Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled when someone wants to give me the gory details of planning her wedding. I'll listen with rapt attention for hours to hear how she debated over roses or calla lillies for her bouquet. I'll go shopping at party stores with distressed mothers of the Bnai Mitvot crowd and help them pick out give-away toys and give it the same meticulous attention that I would use while choosing the Crown Jewels for the Queen.
Need help slogging through invitation books, trying to find the perfect one? I'm your gal!
In fact, I have planned so many events I can practically do it in my sleep. I know all of the local venues and caterers for special events; which florists are the most creative- the cheapest and the most expensive; I know the photographers, the bands and DJs; I know who makes hand painted chuppahs.
But when it comes to actually attending the event? Nah. Not so much. I'd rather stay home, thank you very much.
My husband still marvels how everyone at our synagogue stressed for weeks regarding the plans for our rabbi's tenth anniversary with us. Will was president of our shul at the time. One night, six weeks before the event, he returned from a Board of Director's meeting distraught.
"No one bothered to form a committee for the tenth anniversary and now they say it's too late to plan the gala. The rabbi is going to be so hurt."
"But you have six weeks," I said.
"They say it's impossible, I tell you," he replied.
I sighed. People make such a big tzimmes for nothing.
"Look," I said, "If you want this gala to go off without a hitch I'll do it for you. What's the budget?"
"Five hundred dollars."
I stared at him as if he had become the pope. "For how many people?"
"At least two hundred."
"Wow," I muttered. Now I could even see the Papal red skull cap on his head. Five hundred dollars for a gala event for 200 people. The man needed a miracle.....or a change in the event.
"Give me 24 hours," I said with a smile.
By three PM I had hired a caterer, came up with a menu of BBQ hamburgers and hotdogs with potato salad, cajoled my son, the pianist, to play for free, convinced my daughter, a triple threat actress, to sing for free, contacted the congregation for old pictures of the rabbi for a memory wall, and had even ordered flowers.
I'm no magician, and I'm not tooting my horn. This took literally three phone calls and a brief talk with my kids. And a promise to take them to the movies. I decided to be the main photographer. I'm good at photography. But I asked several other members to take photos as well. Just in case I screwed up.
I changed the 'Gala' into a country jamboree, with sunflowers and haystacks as decor. Our rabbi is from California and plays guitar. It seemed to fit.
Bottom line - everyone had a blast and I was 24 dollars over budget.
So, with this kind of background for party-planning I sat in the car as we drove to Toronto and wondered why I hated attending these events so much.
And then it hit me.
It's because I'm such a sentimental slob. I blubber and wail at every single gathering! The father gets tearful while giving his speech about how great his kid is and I'm balling my eyes out, sniffling and snorting and blowing my nose and sounding like a snuffle-up-a-gus on a bad day. It's so embarrassing!
Can I help it? No! Not in the least. And it's getting worse as time goes by.
Somewhere down the road, some sadistic idiot decided that a video of the Bar/Bat Mitzvah child's life and family should not only be shown, it must oh absolutely MUST be accompanied by the hokiest music ever created. For example: The Wind Beneath my Wings. Oh Help Me! Forget Kleenex, I need an entire case of tissue boxes to get through one of those videos. And they go on forever.
There is no mercy for us sentimental slobs.
So, imagine my distress when there was a very strict rule made for my nephew's Bar Mitzvah, and it came from Nathan, the Bar Mitzvah boy, himself. No tears.
Was he kidding?
Now, to be fair, I understood where he was coming from. His grandmother is the queen of tears. She cries at commercials even! And cartoons. The grandkids laugh with embarrassment when she cries and they often tease her. It isn't even a family joke. The entire Jewish community knows about her penchant for tears.
So there I am on Saturday night, watching the hokiest of hokey videos about my nephew, breaking out in a cold sweat, gritting my teeth, trying so hard not to cry when Bette Midler sang 'The Wind Beneath my Wings.'
I glanced at my mother-in-law. She bit her lips, but she did not shed a tear. She even got up and gave a speech without crying. Dang!
After the video and speeches I sighed with relief and gulped down a glass of wine. I'd survived without a single tear being shed. Then Will's cousin Maurie came over.
"Maurie," laughed my husband. "You're worse than my mother. You've been crying for nearly an hour."
"I can't help it," she wailed. "Now that I'm older and I'm going to be a Bubbie, I cry at everything. Where has the time gone?"
That was it. I burst into tears. "I know exactly what you mean," I sobbed as we clung to each other. "It's unbearable to see them so grown."
Maurie's sister, Bev, joined us and we stood in the middle of the dance floor hugging and crying. "We'll never wait so long to see each other again," cried Bev.
"Time's so short," hiccoughed Maurie. "No more another day. There might not be one!"
"Oh brother," muttered William and walked away.
As we clung to each other, crying, we looked around the room at all of the elderly women staring at us and nodding their heads. The three of us had just passed over that line of sane, seemingly cold-hearted women into the ranks of blubbering bubbies.
It's not a good feeling.
I've decided that Kleenex might be a really good stock to own. And I'm cringing. I've got a wedding to attend next month.