When it’s OK to turn the tables on rules

There are two types of people in the world: those who respect rules and those who don’t. My late father took regulations very seriously. My late mother saw them as a challenge. I suspect I received my mother’s genes. 

There’s nowhere that illustrates this divide more vividly than seating at functions. 

Last weekend was busy, peppered with a wonderful smorgasbord of simchas: Batmitzvahs, weddings, engagements, and birthday parties. But it was at a wedding that the philosophical chasm between rule-followers and rule-benders revealed itself in all its glory. 

According to the seating list, we were meant to sit at table 15. Which was perfectly fine. Except for the minor detail that my brother, who had been away for some time, was seated at table 13. And I wanted to sit with him. 

Before you judge me too harshly, it’s worth noting that the tables were arranged in long, continuous rows. Table 13, 14, and 15 were less “tables” and more a suggestion. A gentle concept. A numerical vibe. So we sat with my brother and sister-in-law closer to the table 15 end. Technically. Mostly. Fine, at the 15 end. 

We were making ourselves fantastically comfortable, settling in for the afternoon, when I noticed her. 

The look of a horrified guest caught my eye. 

She was in administrative overdrive. Counting. Recounting. Reworking. Adding. Allocating. As a committed rule follower, she had clearly memorised the seating chart, cross-referenced surnames, and perhaps even laminated the list for quick consultation. She knew – absolutely knew – that we had gone rogue. 

She didn’t want to be that person. You could see it in her eyes. But the distress was bubbling dangerously close to the surface. This wasn’t merely a seating issue. This was a breach. A violation. Possibly a slippery slope. She knew in her heart that we were going to come to build a raft. 

Because once one family shifts one seat to the left, what’s next? Chaos. Anarchy. People choosing their own chairs. 

She hovered. She circled. She adjusted a napkin that didn’t need adjusting. Eventually, unable to bear it any longer, she leaned in and whispered, “I think you’re actually meant to be at table 15.” 

I smiled warmly. “Yes,” I said, “we are. This is table 15-ish.” 

This didn’t help. 

She glanced at the list again, then at us, then at the list. Her internal spreadsheet was crashing. Somewhere deep inside, my late father nodded in sympathy. My late mother would have slipped the waiter a R50 note. 

To be fair, I understand the rule-followers. Seating plans exist for a reason. Caterers panic when numbers change. Chairs are counted. Meals are plated. Order must prevail. And in a community that prides itself on organisation – shul boards, committees, subcommittees, WhatsApp groups with constitutions – rules are comforting. They create certainty. 

But there’s also something deeply human about wanting to sit with your brother. About choosing connection over compliance. About recognising that not every rule is sacred, and not every deviation is a personal affront to civilisation. 

Eventually, sanity prevailed. No extra chairs were needed. No-one starved. The bride and groom were blissfully unaware of the near-collapse of social order at tables 13 to 15. The distressed guest relaxed. I suspect she went home and told the story as a cautionary tale. 

And I went home thinking about how much of life is spent worrying about lists. 

Who’s on which table. Who’s in which group. Who’s meant to be where. We measure, categorise, allocate and judge, often missing the point entirely. The point, after all, isn’t the table number. It’s the people around it. 

My father would probably have told me to move. My mother would have told me how clever I was and how beautiful my wife looked, and said, “Relax, darling – no-one died.” 

I think both were right. But if I have to choose, I’ll always sit closer to table 13. 

Rules matter. People matter more.