Long Time Coming

Eight years ago today, I became a missus. In a Jewish wedding there aren't any vows, no grand "I do" at the end. Instead there is the loud "pop" of breaking glass at the conclusion of the ceremony. I didn't need to say "I do" because I had known for seven years that I did.

The Hoos doesn't believe me, but when he stopped, extending a bag of Rainbow Chips Deluxe to me as I sat on one of the benches outside Crawford Hall, I had an epiphany. I had seen him before. He was the guy with the ponytail and the fish hook on his hat. The one who spoke to our professor, Buck, after class about fishing. But in the moment he asked for my phone number so we could study together for a statistics exam, I knew. A few minutes later when I returned to my room and was talking to my mom on the phone, I blurted out "I just met a guy I'm going to...date," catching myself just barely at the end. But knowing.

I thought I was pretty smart at nineteen. And fifteen years after our first study date, eight years after I promised that I was my beloved's and my beloved was mine (ani le-dodi, ve-dodi li), I guess I really was.