“Y

ou want to learn to what?” asked my husband of several months, looking at me as if I’d just informed him that I intended to swap my standard brown wig for a short, curly, blonde one.

“To sew,” I calmly replied.

“Sewing is for grandmothers, or people who work at the cleaners. Not for a regular girl who was class valedictorian, went to the right camps and top seminary, and is well on her way to getting her degree!”

I guess it was good my creative interests had never come up as a topic of conversation on any of our dates. I’d always wanted to learn to sew and I intended to learn.

Despite Ari’s strong feeling that sewing was a domestic art better left in the last century, he finally came around. I found a used sewing machine and enrolled in a sewing class.

Ari is one of 11 siblings and my mother-in-law has very definite opinions about matching gowns for all family members at family simchahs. With two sisters-in-law dating and our limited budget, there was no way I would be able to afford to rent or buy gowns for their weddings. I was determined to wear my very own creation to the next wedding.

Ari wisely held his tongue whenever he came home from night seder to find our table covered in swathes of fabric and pattern pieces. I valiantly pinned, cut, and basted my way through the course, and even managed to produce a basic skirt that was somewhat wearable.

Several months after I finished the course, Ari’s sister Hadassah got engaged. The l’chayim and vort passed in a haze of miniature pastries and elaborate floral arrangements. Then it was time for big decisions. “What’s the color?” texted my older sister-in-law, Adeena, on the family chat. Judging from the constant buzzing of my phone, a heated exchange ensued. I didn’t really care what color they chose because I had no intention of traipsing from gemach to gemach searching for the elusive perfect gown.

The next morning, I checked the chat to discover the verdict and felt a twinge of regret for not having participated in the discussion. Sage green was definitely not a color that suited me particularly well, but I had a job and classes to attend to and they were infinitely more important than looking sallow in someone else’s wedding pictures.

Life seemed to hit a frenetic pace after that. I had papers to write and exams to study for. The sweet-looking children who coughed and sniveled their way through the pediatric office where I worked kindly shared their colds and viruses with me. Pesach came and went, heralding spring, and before I knew it, the wedding was just weeks away.

“Shouldn’t you be thinking about a gown for the wedding?” Ari would occasionally ask.

“I’ve got it under control,” I answered each time. Truth be told, I hadn’t even gone to look for fabric or a pattern.

Three weeks before the wedding, we spent Shabbos at my in-laws. After a hectic week, I was looking forward to a Shabbos away. We bentshed licht Friday night and then made a beeline for the living room. Inevitably the conversation centered on the upcoming wedding, sheva brachos, and their myriad details.

My mother-in-law and sisters-in-law talked incessantly about their gowns and matching shoes, hairdos, and jewelry. It was obvious they were dying to know what I planned to wear, but I didn’t offer any information, and they were too polite to press me for details.