My Mistake

            The night before I married the wrong man, I lay on a narrow single bed in an upstairs room of his childhood home. Restless and tossing on an uncomfortable, unforgiving mattress, my body struggled to find an easy settling place. June moonlight wiggled around the edges of the ruffled shades, illuminating the hideous green and gold-flocked wallpaper his mother had carefully chosen. Silvery arcs jittered off the highly polished mahogany furniture, keeping me awake. The clock on the table next to me loudly ticked away the night. “This is not a good idea”, I thought, “but I will, I have, to make it work.”  I forced myself to settle down, then dropped into shallow sleep.

            As I approached college graduation in 1968, my options seemed limited – marry someone, become a teacher, a social worker, or a nurse. I chose two from column A. Marriage and a teaching job around the Boston area were my longed-for tickets out of suburban New Rochelle. With two hundred miles between me and home, there would be no seducing me back into the self-appointed, always conflicted role of family peacekeeper trying to mediate the messy dynamics of my family. Noisy, ugly anger between my parents and my unhappy, unstable brother pushed me away from home. My father’s accidental death in 1966 added an unbearable layer of sadness, affecting each of us three in different ways.

            Most of the time my college boyfriend, Elliot, and I had spent together after the first semester of our senior year, was, as they say, “under the influence”. He was a bigger pothead than I, but being high was how we (and everyone we knew) got on. The shaky future, shaded by the nightmare of a remote war and racially and politically fueled urban unrest, seemed distant and just a bit threatening – something we childishly chose to ignore.

            A nice Jewish boy from New Jersey, reasonably good-looking, he seemed to be the, if not perfect, at least an acceptable way out of my childhood. Best of all, we never fought. There was no tension. We grooved to alternative FM Rock stations, laughed a lot at nothing in particular, and chose to turn our dilated stares away from any unpleasantness. We were so far down the rabbit-hole, we couldn’t admit that we were stuck in a tunnel to middle class Wonderland. It was oh-so-easy to keep playing the game.

            The luncheon menu was planned, guests would arrive and that nasty, self-righteous little rabbi of theirs was scheduled to show up by 11:30. I knew I could never face my recently-widowed mother and admit, after all the convincing arguments I had mounted, the hours spent shopping for a dress, and the money she had laid out, that she, in fact, was right. I was too young, and he was the wrong one for me.

            As I moved under the chuppah, I knew I couldn’t mutter “I don’t.” Too many people would be disappointed. I didn’t matter.

           

            On the brisk September day I walked into my freshman dorm on Bay State Road, the expectations for a girl graduate were a degree in a traditional female skill and a diamond solitaire by graduation day. Dates with frat boys were the goal; issues ofBrides Magazine and Cosmopolitan littered the common areas, advising us of how to reach it. College was a mostly pleasant way station for what we believed to be real life.

            I was a coed on the cusp, a baby-boomer coming of age during the convergence of different philosophies and lifestyles. All the “givens” had changed during the time I matriculated. When I went off to Boston in 1964, my mother and I packed my college wardrobe – tasteful wool dresses, pumps and stockings, some skirts and matching sweaters. The world shook, and by 1966 my bras were on the floor of the double-doored dorm closet, my winter coat came from an army-navy surplus store, and I lived in Farmer John overalls.

            At some level, I was insecure and cautious - hedging my bets, maintaining a toehold in both worlds. I went to mixers, met potential husband material, and got messily drunk at toga parties hosted by sweaty, gangly boy-men. Although I dated as much as any of the other girls, I never really found an acceptable boyfriend. Rick, my escape-valve and first lover, was a handsome dark Italian street kid from Jersey City who fought his way into Tufts on a scholarship. With him, I could distance myself from my dorm mates, critiquing and laughing at their traditional values. He was, though, most certainly not someone I could bring home to my family.

            It was senior year and things were looking a little grim. My best friend, Alice, and my roommate Barbara were talking marriage, planning shiny new lives after Boston. What would I do? I shoved Rick aside, and without much thought or insight, latched myself more tightly onto another guy I had just begun dating.

            Elliot was an acceptable candidate for my future. He had plans – an MBA, a nice home, maybe kids – all things a good daughter should want. I don’t recall that he ever actually proposed, but somehow we ended up engaged. His grandmother’s tiny diamond, having spent many years hidden away from burglars in an ice cube tray in suburban New Jersey, was defrosted and reset into a modern platinum ring.  I happily accepted the mantle of being one of “the promised ones”.

            My mother and brother, still reeling from my father’s recent and unexpected death, did not really like my “betrothed” – a sign I ignored. Running to escape my family’s tragedies, I touted Elliot’s meager attributes like a rabid cheerleader, stayed stoned and planned a hippie-ish wedding. Along the way, I, of course, met his family – another ignored signpost that I was skidding down the wrong tunnel.

            Bea and Arthur were staunchly deluded Nixon supporters.  Elliot told me they owned and managed property in Newark - slumlord was the more accurate term. I was a red-diaper baby who grew up watching my forebear’s muscled arms bolstering the plight of the little guy.  My mother’s side was more genteel – professional careers and academia defined their lives. Nobody, on either side, ever pulled the Republican switch in the voting booth. I never breathed a word about Elliot’s family’s voting record or their Republican bumper stickers to my passionately political, left-leaning family.

            The first time I met my  in-laws-to-be, I hoped to make a good impression. I wore a demure black dress with white collar and cuffs, patent leather kitten heels, and had recently adopted a trendy Barbra Streisand “do”. When Elliot and I approached the front door of the modest grey house, we were met by a hard-faced woman sporting a beehive coiffure and cantilevered bosoms, both defying gravity. She brought us into their living room, where Elliot’s father Arthur’s, first words to me were, “You just get off a horse? A little bow-legged, nu? “.  Caught off guard, I smiled back at him, slipping into a modified ballet pose, one foot in front of the other, to hide my never-before noticed defect.

            After spending a few awkward minutes trying to make conversation while perched on the uncomfortable rolled edges of the plastic-covered furniture, we were told that dinner was ready. Elliot’s mother ushered us from the tight turquoise living room, through an archway, into the adjacent small gold and white dining room. A Versailles Palace-worthy crystal chandelier illuminated the lace-covered table, bouncing light off its plastic protective cloth. We took our seats, making sure that Arthur could have a good view of the TV in the sunroom. He was intent on watching a Sunday football game.

            I offered to help serve. “No, no,” Bea commanded, “I’ll do it. The kitchen is kosher. I don’t want you mixing meat and dairy.” She ceremoniously put on her color-coordinated apron and disappeared. Arthur ignored us, and Elliot fiddled with the place settings. I silently prayed I wasn’t sweating through my dress.

            A few minutes later, our small talk quota depleted, my mother-in-law-to-be pushed her way through the saloon-door entry proudly carrying the main course. A large china platter was placed center-stage and there, leering at me like a hungry, lecherous lover, was a massive and pink, unsliced, boiled tongue.  One end leered at me, the other seemed to have been ripped right from the animal’s throat. The rest of the supporting cast appeared – mustard, olives, pickles, overcooked broccoli and some sort of starch.  Struggling, I smiled once more.

            Our plates were heaped with the company meal she had prepared. Elliot, sitting to my right, hungrily grabbed his knife and fork, slathered mustard over all the food on his plate, and attacked it with gusto. I gamely forced down a few small pieces of the nubby, rubbery meat, trying mightily to push them back far enough to swallow, without tasting or chewing.  “Elliot”, I whispered, as I nudged him under the table, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

            “Hey, Ma,” he bleated, “Ellen hates the tongue.” Embarrassed, and feeling a little betrayed, I sank into my chair. Bea shot me a look, silently went into the kitchen, appearing moments later with a pink Pyrex bowl filled with pasty chicken salad.

            “Maybe you’ll like this better,” she muttered. She plunked the alternative protein on the corner of the table closest to my seat. We finished the meal in almost silence.

            Over the next months, wedding plans moved along, but I knew in the deepest part of me that this marriage had no chance – Elliot and I had nothing more than sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll in common. I was, however, too young, too unwilling to stand up for myself, too embarrassed, to know how to yell “STOP.” And so, on a sunny day in June, wearing a white lace mini-dress and a flower in my hair, I squinted into the light and smiled at the photographer.  Standing under the chuppah, I recited my vows with a sinking feeling in my stomach and my fingers crossed under a wilting summer bouquet.

It took three years to undo my mistake.