The Longest Date: Life as a Wife

by Cindy Chupack

  And the next morning I woke up in Ian’s arms and said, “Wow, I haven’t done that in a while . . .” and then I realized it was because I was supposed to be in love with the guy!

  I had fallen off the wagon, and not with a great guy, but with a bad boy!

  I’d have to keep looking. I would continue to sleep with Ian (because—who am I kidding?—I’m not a vegetarian) but I would keep seeking the guy I was going to marry; Ian was not that guy. He told me he wasn’t that guy. He said he didn’t want a relationship, that he would break my heart, that he was trouble.

  And it was all a big, fat lie. Ian was the one who decided we should be exclusive. He asked me out for Halloween, and when I told him I had a friend in town, and that the next night my friend would still be in town, Ian realized my friend was a guy (like I said, I was still looking!) and said, “Have a nice time, whore!” and that’s when I knew Ian cared about me.

  Ian was the first one to say “I love you,” which came as a shock to both of us. It was after a dinner party we’d thrown together a few months after we’d met (yes, the guy who didn’t want to be in a relationship decided we should introduce our friends), and afterward, as we were cleaning up, I saw a mouse run under my couch. Ian tried to coax it out (which worked—it came out and ran directly into the kitchen between my feet to get to another room, the first sign that having a man around to take care of things like mice was not necessarily going to take care of things like mice), but that was so hilarious-slash-upsetting that we left my apartment in the care of the mouse and went out for a drink with two of Ian’s friends, and as they were laughing at the story, Ian looked at me and said he loved me. They didn’t hear him, but who says “I love you” for the first time with other people at the table? Ian did. And it was twice as heart pounding because it was so completely unexpected.

  Ian was the one who decided to take the California bar exam so he could be where my career was.

  Ian was the one, the day after taking the California bar exam, who said he was going surfing, then surprised me on the beach near my house at sunset to propose, riding a white horse, dressed as a knight. I know that sounds potentially corny, but he pulled it off . . . rented armor, rented horse, and all. In fact, he told me later that the horse had started galloping when he first got on, and his rented helmet closed, obscuring his vision, so all he saw was “dog, sand, ocean, sand.” And then when he finally slowed down and got to me, his foot had slipped out of the stirrup and he couldn’t get the faux armor foot covering back into the stirrup in order to get off the horse and propose. When I saw what was going on, I asked if he needed help, and he said, “No, this is something I need to do myself.” And then a few seconds later, he conceded, “Yes, I need help.” So he rescued me, just like in the fairy tales, but I had to help him get off his high horse. And then the horse—who had once appeared on Will & Grace, because in Los Angeles even animals have credits—had to go back to Hollywood, so I got to walk hand in hand with my fiancé/knight-in-shining-rented-armor back to the beach house where I had lived for so long alone, and as neighbors and passersby stopped and stared, I thought, a little smugly, They said it wouldn’t happen.

  Ian was the one who wanted to have kids right away.

  Ian was The One.

  And the rest is romantic semantics. The sweet version of this story is that I had decided that the next guy I slept with would be someone I loved, and he turned out to be precisely that. The salty version is that I did not have the willpower (or sobriety) to wait until I was in love to sleep with someone, but I fell in love with the guy I didn’t wait to sleep with.

  Get This

  I’m finally getting married!”

  That’s what I kept telling people.

  I didn’t say I was finally getting married again, because bringing up a first marriage during the planning of a second seemed to be a major buzzkill for everyone involved, especially me. I suppose this is because it reminds the bride and groom, at a time when their biggest worry should be buttercream versus spun sugar, that these partnerships don’t always work out. That love does not always conquer all. And I didn’t want to hang that particular cloud over Ian, because this was his first wedding (a term I didn’t like for him either, because it implied he might have a second). So we tried not to talk about first or second anythings until our first meeting with the rabbi.

  Ian called our rabbi “the hot rabbi,” because she was young and hip and, okay, let’s just say it: hot. I didn’t mind him calling her hot. In fact, I found it reassuring, because it was a clear sign, exactly when I needed one, that Ian was not gay. The one wedding detail I was certain about was this: I did not want to publicly declare my love for someone in front of my closest friends and family only to have that someone, two years later, realize he might be gay. Again.

  Yes, okay, yes. That’s what happened to me the first time around, a little over ten years earlier, and that’s what I told the hot rabbi when she asked if either of us had been married before.

  The hot rabbi blinked, then nodded. Like I said, she was hip. She lived in New York. What woman today doesn’t have a guy-who-turned-out-to-be-gay story? Admittedly, it’s a smaller, somewhat sadder subset that has a husband-who-turned-out-to-be-gay story, but the point is the hot rabbi was appropriately not shocked. She said she didn’t need to know all of the details, although she was happy to listen if I needed to talk.

  But I didn’t need to talk about that particular topic. I have talked about it so much that the story is on Audible.com (seriously). We were both in our twenties. The divorce was amicable. We labeled index cards with our meager belongings and divided them up. We shared a cat for a while. It stung me a bit when I realized my ex was going to have a husband and kids before I did. I think it stung him a bit when he realized I was getting paid more to write sitcoms than he was getting paid to save lives. So we gave each other space to have—or have not—without judgment.

  The hot rabbi did ask if my ex-husband was Jewish. This seemed like a moot point to me, but I told her, Yes, he was Jewish. She nodded again and made a note.

  I remember how happy my parents had been that I was marrying a Jewish doctor. It was like winning the Jewish lottery, until he turned out to be gay. After that, my parents cared less about my boyfriends’ religion than their ability to name at least three pro ballplayers. Therefore, it was nice, but not essential, that Ian turned out to be Jewish as well.

  Ian was a tattooed lawyer/poet/chef who had learned French while living in Vietnam, sold rare books in Paris, and interned in The Hague, where he helped draft the Miloševic indictment. The fact that he was Jewish was the least remarkable thing about him.

  In the spirit of full disclosure, Ian told the hot rabbi that his mother had converted to Judaism before he was born, but she might now consider herself more of a Buddhist, and while we were on the subject of the gays, she was also a late-in-life lesbian who had recently married a woman. The hot rabbi made another note, then mused that it was perhaps fitting that our wedding was taking place during New York’s gay pride weekend.

  This fact, I have to admit, had somehow eluded me. As I started contemplating the irony of this, and wondering which of our carefully laid plans might be interrupted by the parade route, Ian helpfully went on to explain that his dad was Jewish, and although his dad died when Ian was young, Ian still considered himself a Jew, and wanted a Jewish wedding, so here we were.

  Ian and the hot rabbi smiled at me. I smiled back, pretending to have been paying attention. Then the hot rabbi had this question for me: “Did you ever get a get?”

  I had heard of a get. I knew it was some kind of Jewish divorce certificate, but it felt like Number 1,764 on my list of priorities when my marriage ended—slightly less pressing than figuring out what to do with all of our wedding photos, and about as exciting as informing my credit card companies that I needed to change my name back.

  Plus, I had never been that
religious. I hadn’t even had a bat mitzvah, because my sister had warned me, “If you’re doing it for the presents, that’s the wrong reason.” Then, when the time came, she did have a bat mitzvah and raked it in, which, she admitted as an adult, had been her plan all along.

  Whatever. I’m over it. But since my thirteen-year-old self hadn’t gotten the gifts, the party, or much of a Jewish identity, my twenty-seven-year-old self had been in no rush to get a Jewish divorce certificate. Our non-Jewish divorce had been complicated enough, especially since I was attempting to fill out the forms myself with the help of a do-your-own-divorce book and a gay production assistant from the show where I was working.

  I mention the gay production assistant not only because he was very helpful, but also because at that time in my life—when my marriage was ending for the most irreconcilable of differences—it seemed as if everyone in the world was gay. It wasn’t just my husband: two of his groomsmen came out after our wedding, as did, in a very unexpected twist, one of my bridesmaids. Looking back, I’m not sure if it was a wedding party or a White Party.

  I was tinkering with stand-up comedy then, and onstage my routines involved only subjects like why a clerk at the 99 Cents store would shout, “Price check!” Offstage, however, I would talk to my friend Rob, a fellow aspiring stand-up, about everything else. Rob was a big guy with big glasses and a big personality. He was also the first person who tried to make me laugh about the fact that my husband had realized he was gay. Rob was endlessly fascinated and amused by my story, and asked me a lot of questions like: What were the signs? Has he told his family yet? How did he tell you?

  A year later, Rob came out. He also lost about half of his body weight, since he wasn’t hiding anymore, and it became clear to me that in Rob’s eyes (now in contacts), my husband was the hero of my story.

  My story: every time I told it, someone came out to me. I was telling it at a Hollywood party to a cute guy I thought was flirting with me only to realize he was married—to a man. He explained that he had never even dated men until he met his husband while traveling abroad. Then I told that story to my friend who hosted the party, and he confessed that he considered himself bi, which he explained was difficult for any potential partner to comprehend. For example, he went on, how would I feel about dating him? When I realized his question was not rhetorical, I blushed and respectfully declined. Then I told that story to a male friend whom I knew was straight, and he also confessed he was thinking of dating men; then, months later, after coming out to his stunned Beverly Hills parents and getting a couple of gay relationships under his belt, so to speak, he decided he was actually more interested in women, and eventually he married a woman who had previously considered herself a lesbian. My feeling, at this point, when everyone’s sexuality seemed to be in flux, was simply: Pick a side! I’m fine with it all! Just declare a major!

  I was thinking about what a relief it was that I could finally tell my story without inadvertently encouraging anybody out of the closet when the hot rabbi announced that I should “get a get.”

  She explained that Ian and I did not technically need a get in order to get married, but without it, under Jewish law, our children would basically be considered bastards.

  Wow. I was prepared for my children to be miracles of science, but bastards?

  She clarified that this would only be a problem if those prospective children wanted to marry a nonbastard Jew or go to a Jewish school for nonbastards. (She didn’t use those words exactly; she may have used the term “illegitimate,” but that was the idea.) She also thought the process might be good closure for me.

  Frankly, it sounded like anything but closure. It sounded like it would require reopening the lines of communication that my ex-husband and I had finally, and I would say mercifully, shut down, after trying for years to prove that we were the friends we kept saying we were. We were friends. We wished each other well. It was just easier, I think, to wish each other well from afar.

  Also, we’d had a version of closure. At one point, when his parents were having a hard time accepting the idea that their son was gay, that it was something he was born with, they cut him off financially. He was in med school at the time and strapped for cash, and the one thing he really wanted was to buy a house. So I decided to help him with the down payment by giving him back the extravagant emerald-cut engagement ring that he, out of guilt, had told me to keep. I had stored it in a safe-deposit box, not wanting to wear it but not quite ready to sell or reset it. I would occasionally visit my ring, visit my old married self, but even with nobody present to witness it, I was aware of how pathetic I looked sitting in a bank cubicle modeling my engagement ring. So when I had the opportunity to return it to its rightful owner in the spirit of forgiveness and friendship, I jumped at the chance. I said, “With this ring, will you not marry me?” And we had a little moment, and he bought a little house, and that was that.

  Until now.

  In order to get a get, I would need to get back in touch with my ex-husband and persuade him to go before a panel of three Orthodox holy men and officially “release me.” The process is actually even more offensive than I am making it sound. The tradition is based on a completely sexist biblical verse (Deuteronomy 24:1), which states, in so many words: “A man takes a wife and possesses her. If she fails to please him because he finds something obnoxious about her, he writes her a bill of divorcement, hands it to her, and sends her away from his house.”

  First of all, I do not think my ex-husband found me obnoxious. He might have wished I had a penis, but if anything, I was the one who had grounds for “sending him away from my house.” However, with my wedding to Ian less than three months away and the hope of legitimate children on the horizon, I decided this was not the time to go Gloria Steinem on the Old Testament.

  When I called my ex-husband in Los Angeles (I was living in New York at the time), he was surprised to hear from me, happy to learn I was getting married, and a little dubious about what I was asking him to do. I assured him I would pay the fee and do all the homework; his only responsibility would be to show up. We decided that although it was possible to get a get without being in the same place, we would try to get ours the next time I was in Los Angeles. He even suggested we have a “get-together” afterward so I could meet his kids. I started to like the idea of a get. It sounded like it might be good closure after all.

  Our awkward reunion took place outside a barely marked industrial building that served as an office for the Orthodox rabbi whose name I had gotten through an online organization that facilitated gets. (Yes, there is such an organization, it’s based in Brooklyn, and operators are standing by.) We made small talk while I pressed the buzzer (You look good. You, too. How are your parents? How’s New York?) but it slowly became clear, as we ran out of chitchat, that nobody was responding to the buzzing. We called the rabbi’s number, which was his home number, and he answered, and that’s when we learned that there was confusion about the time and that we’d have to reschedule.

  We explained that we couldn’t reschedule. It had taken us over ten years to make this appointment.

  The rabbi sighed and said he would try to locate two witnesses, and we should give him an hour.

  That’s how it came to pass that we had some time to kill, and my ex-husband said his partner and kids were nearby shopping, so maybe we should have our “get-together” now. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, which seemed appropriately symbolic of our relationship, but we found a faux–French café nearby that would take us.

  It’s not often a girl gets to sit down with the man she thought she would have kids with and the man he did have kids with (not to mention the kids), but the truth is, they were a pretty perfect family without me. I had met my ex-husband’s partner at a Christmas party years earlier, and I liked him immediately. He was so handsome and kind and witty that I found it flattering to imagine he was the male version of me
. They had since adopted two beautiful boys who looked as if they’d just crawled out of a Baby Gap ad. As I watched my ex-husband juggle juice boxes and crayons and children’s menus, he smiled at me and warned: “Get ready.”

  I was getting ready. I was trying to make sure my kids wouldn’t be bastards.

  Finally the rabbi called and said he could see us. When we arrived, all of us, he explained the process might take another hour, so my ex-husband told his family he would call them when we were done.

  The rabbi was old, and his two witnesses were even older. They sat on one side of a table and we sat on the other. We had to say our names in Hebrew, which already was a problem because mine was supposedly Ariel, but I was told in Sunday school that the female version of Ariel is Ariella. Feeling strongly that somebody should be the female version of me in this process, I went with Ariella. We also had to state that we had come freely without coercion, and then we watched in respectful silence as the rabbi, who was also officially a scribe, wrote our divorce document by hand, with pen and ink, in Hebrew.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the document was only half finished. When my ex-husband left to feed the meter, the rabbi fixed me with a stare and asked the question that had clearly been bothering him since we arrived: “Who was that other man who came with you?” Since I wasn’t sure what the official Orthodox stance was on homosexuality, I said it was my ex-husband’s friend. “And whose children were those?” he asked. I didn’t like where this was going. I asked if this would affect the get process, because we had been there a long time as it was. He assured me it would not, so I admitted that my ex-husband was gay, and that the other man was his partner, and those were their kids.

  The two ancient witnesses looked at each other, which was the first and only indication that they spoke English.

  “I think that’s sick,” the rabbi said flatly.