(A small preview of the ketubah, which in real life is more beautiful - and BIG!) |
Yesterday, I went to get our beautiful ketubah framed. The ketubah is very special; it was a gift from some of my sweet coworkers, and was custom designed by our
artist friend Christina of C. Mattison Illustration. Obviously, this document matters a lot to us,
symbolically and physically.
So when I had to hand it over to a guy at the framing place,
and he was my age but basically toothless and kept wiggling his finger in his
ear, mining for wax as we spoke… well. I was nervous.
“It’s our wedding contract,” I said protectively,
placing myself between the ketubah and Toothless Ear Wax Man. “It’s very
important to us. It’s called a ketubah—”
“I’ll getcher done,” he said, finger thrusting again into
his ear.
I wanted to walk out right then with the ketubah, rather than abandon the
poor innocent wedding document. I felt odd, leaving her in the grubby hands of this disinterested man. But no place else
in town could handle that big custom framing job on a quick enough time frame, “guaranteed.”
Thus, I handed over our ketubah and left, feeling nervous.
My misgivings
continued to mount: He didn’t even know
what a ketubah was! He didn’t care! HE MIGHT GET EAR WAX ON HER!
Today, I got a call that the framed ketubah was ready—earlier
than expected. I went in to get it, feeling the lingering trepidation.
Toothless Ear Wax Man was not there. Instead, a brusque
middle-aged woman, efficient but not warm, was behind the framing counter. I
handed her my receipt, and she went to get my order. She brought out the large,
now-heavy framed ketubah, and brusquely peeled off the tape from the crisp
brown butcher paper to reveal the handiwork below.
“It’s beautiful!” I said, relieved, when I saw it.
“Yeah, that’s good,” she said, re-wrapping the butcher
paper. She matter-of-factly checked me out, handed it over, and then as I
turned to heft the ketubah and heave it out of the store, she cleared her
throat.
“Hey,” she said, still abrupt but with a kind twinkle in her
eye. “Uh, ‘mazel tov.’”
I looked at her, the efficient stranger at the
framing counter who knew what this paper-wrapped item was and why it was so
important. Suddenly, I could tell my memory of getting this lovely ketubah
hastily framed in Mississippi was going to be far sweeter (and way less waxy)
than I had previously thought.
“Thanks,” I said,
meaning it, and carried our ketubah out to the car.
Big smiles :-D
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