“So, you’d rather keep others waiting than admit you’re running late?” My husband was appalled

“I’ll be there in just a minute,” I hissed at Avi, who was anxiously pacing our tiny Jerusalem apartment. “I just have to finish getting ready!”

I hastily drew two lopsided lines of ink across my eyelids, dabbed at my lashes with a mascara wand, and smeared lipstick across my lips with one quick swipe. Shoving my ponytail inside my sheitel, I scrambled through ten pairs of shoes in my closet until I found a gray pair of flats. I pretended not to notice Avi’s blatantly obvious glance at his new chassan watch.

“I’m done!” I declared defiantly, grabbing a fistful of jewelry and throwing it into my handbag so I could decide which piece to wear while in the taxi. We endured the ride to the restaurant, a mere 25 minutes late for our reservation, in stony silence.

We were only two months into our marriage, but Avi and I had already become painfully aware of how differently we each defined the words “on time.”

It started our first night of sheva brachos.

“We need to be ready to leave in 45 minutes,” Avi declared, fastening his tie and brushing lint off his immaculate wedding suit. All he was missing was his hat.

“Hmm?” I replied. I was sitting on the couch, in a maxi skirt and a sweatshirt, scrolling through wedding pictures that my friends had sent me. “Forty-five minutes? But the chassan and kallah are always an hour late, at least! We have plenty of time!”

Avi was incredulous. “It’s called for 7:30 p.m. We’re not showing up at 8:30 p.m.!”

I snorted and went back to scrolling on my phone. “Well, I’m not going to be the first one there.”

Two hours later, we rolled into the sheva brachos at 9:15 p.m. Avi’s extended family sat stiffly in their fine European clothing, avoiding our eyes as they pretended to calmly eat their food.

Meanwhile, upon seeing us, my family broke out into a rowdy chorus of “Od Yeshama” and “Baruch Habah” as my brothers and brothers-in-law ushered us to the head of the table.

I beamed with joy, feeling beautiful in my new dress, my freshly curled sheitel, and the diamond ring adorning my finger. “Isn’t this great?” I whispered to Avi as I settled into my seat, basking in the glory of being a kallah.

Avi didn't answer.

His silence fueled my anger. I don’t care if his family is hard-core yekkish and have a heart attack if they’re one minute late to a meeting, I thought. This is my simchah, and I’ll do what I want.