Page 513 - WhyAsInY

sinGleD; out
which, the one held by David, droops noticeably during the service, while he announces, “This is so-o-o-o boring!”
I am flying.
We host a dinner for about sixty friends and family at Auberge Argenteuil in Hartsdale (how romantic a name), at which Charlie, the best man in 1969, and others, my father included, speak. I do too and, after saying wonderful and totally deserved things about my bride, I happily recount the following story:
In late November or early December 1988, I was walking on 57th Street, where, at the northwest corner of Park Avenue, I ran into Jeff Braun (who is present at the dinner), my former partner and the hus- band of Beth Essig, a former Rosenman attorney who had worked with Kathy. We caught up on each other’s lives, and then Jeff, who is a very proper guy, sheepishly asks,
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“You kidding?” I reply.
“Do you have any interest in being fixed up? Beth has been after me
to ask you. She’s a lawyer and divorced with two small kids. Beth worked with her and really likes her.”
“Thanks. Interesting. Have her number?” “There’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“She’s not Jewish!”
Pause and reflection.
“Jeff, I don’t have to marry her.” [That’s a wrap!]
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