A New Year’s Eve to Remember

When you see your boyfriend in a blonde wig, wearing your grandmother’s bra stuffed to capacity, you know he’s the one.

A few months earlier, a new guy had moved into my friends’ kosher apartment at law school after his former roommate graduated. Over the fall holidays I was inviting my friend and his fiancé, both still close friends to this day, to share a meal in the JTS sukkah.  This was back in the days before cell phones, and every time I called to work out the details of the menu and timing, his new roommate would answer the phone. After a few messages about who would bring challah and who would bring soup, I thought it was only right to invite the new guy to join us. Little did I know what a momentous decision that would turn out to be.

My friends thought we were a good match and pushed it along. He had plenty going for him and we enjoyed ourselves together, but I have to admit he seemed a bit quiet and strait-laced for an offbeat chick like myself. I remember my friend asking if I had noticed his subtle sense of humor.  I had to confess it was a bit too subtle for me to register. Eventually his full personality started to show. We shared some fun moments and some poignant ones as well. Soon we were officially a couple.
In retrospect, we probably should have been spending that first New Year’s Eve at a romantic dinner, enjoying some of the festivities in New York City. Somehow, though, we ended up deciding to attend my parents’ annual New Year’s Eve party. My parents loved to host, and every year would have a different theme. That year, the theme for that night of excitement was “Back to the Shtetl” — I guess it made sense at the time. As usual, my mom went all in. She ordered bales of hay and rubber chickens to decorate the front yard. She planned a menu of chopped liver, gefilte fish, herring and borscht, perfect party food for ringing in the new year. She insisted we all watch Fiddler several times, to get into character. And of course, she made sure everyone knew that costumes were a requirement.

Though he had already met my parents on several occasions, and my grandparents who lived with them, my guy had never met their circle of friends. I have only one aunt and uncle and two first cousins, so my parents’ friends filled in as my extended family. Several of my mom’s good friends would even joke that they were my “real mom.” This would be their first chance to meet him.

As we were deciding what to wear, he came up with the idea that we should go as the Shtetl’s rabbi and rebbetzin. As a joke, he suggested we switch roles. Here was something new—my mild mannered guy suddenly going all in on the crazy.

He asked me to get him something to wear, and I went to the nearest Goodwill and checked out XXL rack. The next weekend I packed his costume and a black suit for myself, and off we went to Port Authority to catch the bus to Cherry Hill.

When we got to my parents’ house, I finally showed him his outfit. He was not impressed. “I should think that the Rabbi could do a little bit better for his new bride” he thundered. He started rifling through the guest room closet, and managed to find something he deemed more suitable. He also managed to find a ratty, blonde wig, which he wore under a babushka, contrasting nicely with his thick black eyebrows and dark skin. His own black lace up boots completed the outfit.

A quick peek in the mirror revealed the obvious – – his figure was far too flat chested for a six-foot tall yenta. Luckily, my grandmother had a great sense of humor and a large brassiere to loan him. We stole every sock in the house to fill it up. He was quite a vision.

The friends showed up, all in on the theme. Babushkas, aprons and news boy caps galore. My grandmother came as the Tzarina, to afford more dignified wardrobe. My boyfriend never broke character. Who knew I was dating a Method actor? At the stroke of midnight, I realized, this is it. Needless to say, his sense of humor was no longer too subtle for me to appreciate. I’ve been appreciating it ever since.