Of Copper Pots and Men

It didn’t take long. Actually, it is embarrassing how not long it took. We had maybe been engaged, ohhhh, two hours before it dawned on me: with this ring I thee may register for fine home goods.

As a young, single gal living in my own little studio in the city, I have long struggled to make gourmet feasts and treats using the same rusted, old sauté pan. Somehow over the years I have pulled off dinner parties for a dozen people with little else than a splintering wooden spoon, a dented braiser and a few paper towels, in a space not bigger than this. Some people knit, some twist themselves into pretzels at yoga, others play the Sims Online. Me? I cook and bake and clean and organize. It’s how I feel safe and sane (or remain arguably insane). When The Man Who Would Be Husband entered my life it was nothing short of magical, but there's a not-so-small part of me that wonders if adding a matching silverware service for twelve won't make our lives together truly complete?

You can imagine my alarm when, what I assumed was a matter of WHEN and WHERE we’d be registering for the big day, he broached it as a question of IF. To a lot of guys registering for their wedding means about half a day spent in a department store, their manly dignity seeping out through their pores and onto the twenty-five china patterns displayed before them. Not only that, but isn’t it distastefully tacky, he wondered? No. No, it is not. Because wedding gifts are a) always a choice, in no way will we expect anyone to give us a gift (that is what's tacky) and b) those so moved to any level of generosity would probably rather know our tastes and needs so that c) we do not end up with even one, let alone multiple, chocolate fountains. Besides, there's no mandate that gifts be plucked off our registry, and from what I hear such items are sometimes the best of all. Everyone is a winner. He acquiesced, but only after I swore in exchange that I would be solely responsible for finding a place to put all this stuff once we get it. Ha! It’s like he doesn’t even know me. Putting things in their place at home is my favorite way to spend a Friday night.

Recently a good friend and I had a discussion which illustrated a big difference between men and women, and also highlighted the quagmire of wedding registries. Some acquaintances of ours, both from families of modest means, have registered for an ungodly amount of stuff. At six different stores. For thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of silver, china and crystal and every other form of knick-knack. And it is ugly, all of it. Really, really ugly. What my friend actually had to explain to her own betrothed was that it is okay for him to razz this friend about the amount and expense of all the crap they have registered for. It is not, however, okay to razz him about how ugly it all is. Because that would be to insult the taste of his future wife and thereby his friend by association. His response: “I am so glad you told me that, the distinction never would have occurred to me.”

Look, I realize this whole wedding registry business is materialistic. And when you have nine weddings to attend in one year, not including perhaps even your own, it gets to be a seriously expensive enterprise and even the most generous among us can begin to question just how badly the lovely couple really needs that silver-plated salad tong. And what if I never get married? Then who is going to buy me the expensive set of rustic copper pots and pans I’ve always had my eye on? Like noted philosopher Carrie Bradshaw once reminded us all, “No one ever sends a ‘Congratulations You Didn’t Marry the Wrong Guy!’ card”. I have 'celebrated' such an milestone, and I'd wager most anyone who has lived into their mid-twenties has as well [Note to Hallmark: want to get on that one?]

And yet: the little girl inside of me, who has always looked at her mother’s nice things, wedding presents nearly all, and believed that one day “when I am a grown up” that I, too, might make grand cakes and golden, roasted lamb shanks with all the right utensils, served on just the right platter, still felt intensely giddy that the new ring on my finger meant that such adulthood through material accumulation might be just within my grasp. It’s silly and ridiculous and little part of me dies inside having admitted it out loud.

So what is a girl to do? Something I should have done a long time ago, before I ever met my future husband, when I largely believed he didn't exist: I waltzed right out to a fancy-lady store and bought myself a few shiny, new ‘grown up’ things for my still-single, still-very-humble home. Just because I can. Just because I’m not married yet. Just because anyone who thinks that better stuff and a husband magically turns them into a "grown up" is going to be seriously disappointed when they have both and come to find out that deep down that gawky, awkward thirteeen year old never totally disappears. She just has better cookware.