The long goodbye

Before we got married, sometime in the 1990s, we were required to attend a marriage-preparation programme. The idea was to encourage young couples to communicate about areas of potential conflict: money, parents-in-law, sex, careers, religion, and so on. 

In her final act of giving, my grandmother died before the course ended, sparing us the sessions on sex and religion. Which was unfortunate. But not. 

In retrospect, I am amazed there wasn’t at least one session devoted to leaving a function. After 35 years of wedded bliss, I would argue that this is one of the most complicated and challenging areas of marriage. 

The problem is that “I’m ready to leave” means different things to different people. To one spouse, it means “I have enjoyed myself, thanked the hosts, and would now like to go home”. To the other, it means “I am ready to begin the process of leaving”. 

The process can take anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour and a half. It involves announcing your departure, finding the hosts, remembering someone you haven’t yet spoken to, starting a new conversation, and then standing at the front door discussing antisemitism with somebody you barely know. At no point does anyone actually leave. 

It’s particularly complicated for us because my day starts at 04:00. By 20:00 I start to get nervous, at 20:30 I look for escape routes, and by 21:00 I am in a full flight-or-fight panic. I can see nothing other than the precious hours of potential sleep disappearing, one accelerating second at a time. 

At some point, I catch Heidi’s eye from across the room and make the universally understood head movement towards the door. It’s subtle, dignified and also, completely ignored. 

A few minutes later, I try again, adding a raised eyebrow. Still nothing. 

Eventually, I walk over and ask, “Should we start thinking about going?” 

“I just need to say goodbye to one person,” she says. There is never one person. 

I have even tried the “Heidi, are you going to Uber?” approach, which I consider both subtle and humorous. This is a triumph of optimism over experience because every time I use it, I receive a look that is neither subtle nor humorous, and certainly not appropriate for a family publication. 

Weddings are worse. We have yet to resolve whether it is ruder to find the hosts, say goodbye and draw attention to the fact that we are leaving early, or to slip out unnoticed and risk appearing ungrateful. 

It’s an argument we have at every new celebration as though we have never attended a wedding together before. 

My preference is the quiet escape. One moment we are there, the next we are gone. I consider it discreet. Heidi considers it socially unacceptable and possibly grounds for communal excommunication. She insists we say goodbye. 

The problem is that saying goodbye at a Jewish wedding isn’t a single act. First we find the hosts. Then the bride and groom. Then someone asks why we are leaving. By the time I have explained that I wake up at 04:00, reassured everyone that we had a wonderful time, and confirmed that nothing is wrong, we have attracted more attention than if I had climbed onto the table and announced our departure over the microphone. 

Meanwhile, I perform frantic calculations. If we leave now, I can still get five hours. If we leave in 15 minutes, four and a half. If we don’t get out of the parking lot soon, there is no point going to bed at all. 

Perhaps the marriage course was right after all. Leaving a function is about communication, compromise, and accepting that the person you love experiences the world differently. I watch the clock because time is slipping away. My wife lingers because, to her, time with people matters. 

And perhaps, after 35 years, the real blessing is that we still arrive together, still argue about when to go, and still leave holding hands. Even if, occasionally, it is only because I am trying to drag her out of there.