POB (partner of blogger) and I are going through the Jewish version of pre-cana.  Never mind that we have progeny and more than a decade together in our rear-view mirror.

The first time we met with the rabbi, she came to our house.  She couldn’t drink the Kosher wine because she was still nursing and she didn’t touch anything else, even though everything was Kosher and on glass plates (glass doesn’t absorb food particles so glass plates in a non-Kosher home are still ok).  I couldn’t concentrate on anything she said because I was thinking, “what Kosher rule did I forget that renders even Kosher things in my house treyf (un-kosher)?”  The whole session was a blur.  Then, the rabbi ate a grape.  My house was saved from shame.  But, I couldn’t tell you a thing about the discussion.

Today was our second meeting with the rabbi.  We met and ate at Metro Diner, a regular Upper West Side diner.  Really, rabbi?  So, I had to mention that I lived in shame for months after she came to our house last and ate only one grape.  “Oh, I had just eaten and I really wasn’t hungry!”  So, it turns out that there was no curse on my house, but just a rabbi — a JEW — who wouldn’t eat something right under her nose.  (She’s Jewish, right?)

So, I tried to concentrate on this session.  We planned the ceremony and talked about a bunch of things.  Very productive.  This marriage thing seems do-able.

Then, the rabbi reminded us we each had to write a letter to her about why we want to marry each other.  Don’t a child, a home, a mortgage in common qualify?  And I didn’t mention a joint retirement strategy.  That should just seal the deal.  Res ipsa loquitur, baby.

“Excuse me, these aren’t substitutes for the letter?  I’m sorry but I did not know that this was a term paper class.  I thought the final project was the actual wedding.”  Pause.  “Ok, when is it due?”  Pause.  “BEFORE the wedding?”  Harumph.

Not only do I have to finish all of my Continuing Legal Education credits AND lose 5 pounds before the wedding, I must write this letter.

Why is it such an issue?  I don’t know how to begin or where to end.

POB is my best friend and my favorite person in the world.  Her mere presence calms and comforts me.  I trust her implicitly.  I know she loves me like no else could.  I love her the same way.  I am safe with POB and she with me.  I adore POB, just adore her.  I have no logical explanation — I can’t help it.  She and I laugh together.  We think we are the luckiest people in the world.  We are strong because we helped each other grieve our mothers, nurtured each other during professional disappointments, supported each other during our son’s difficult early years and caught each other when we felt like we were falling.  We have gone through moments when we thought we wouldn’t make it together and then realized that we couldn’t make it EXCEPT together.   Now, we finish each other sentences and sometimes I think we are the same person (except she’s cuter). I will never cook, but I will do the dishes.  I have piles of clothes but POB has piles of magazines.  I let POB make the rules at home because she is a benevolent dictator.  I am responsible for customer service and technology issues.  POB never lets us run out of shampoo, moisturizer, food, and other necessities.  I will never be awake early enough to take our son to school, but I will stay up to help with math and science homework.  We are a team.

I am more in love with POB today than at any time before.  But check in with me tomorrow, and I will love POB even more.