IF YOU LEAP BEFORE YOU LOOK, YOU JUST MIGHT LOVE WHERE YOU LAND

An edited version appeared in the Chicago Tribune WomanNews, July 7, 1999

by Elaine Soloway

I gained a master’s degree at 37, a Bat Mitzvah certificate at  51, and a second husband at 59. All of these acquisitions occurred later than the usual timetable, took two years of serious study, and were life-changing events.

I list them now – not to win applause or belated gifts -- but in the hope my experiences and my personal philosophy -- Leap Before You Look (LBYL) -- will help free fence sitters from their perches.

Longing for the prestige of an advanced degree, I dreamed of a master’s ever since completing my bachelor’s in 1960. But marriage, two years as an army officer’s wife, and two babies, put the dream on hold. In 1973, when the University of Illinois at Chicago offered its first Master of Urban Planning and Policy Program – a subject that fascinated me – I leapt.

I’d likely be the oldest student in my class, I knew, and the years ahead would be tough; for I had a husband, nine- and ten-year old daughters, and a part-time job.

I made a bargain with myself: “If after six months, you hate it, or can’t handle the pressure, you can drop out. No recriminations.”

And at times, it was difficult – juggling family responsibilities with homework assignments, research papers, midterms, finals, and my dissertation. But it was also thrilling, and by the time six months rolled around, I was hooked. Quitting was out of the question.

So here’s an important part of my LBYL philosophy: No “bad girl, you’re a quitter” allowed.

My next significant achievement – my Bat Mitzvah – 38 years later than the traditional age of 13, was sparked by a desire to learn more about my religion. I was born a Jew, but did not regularly attend synagogue. Affiliation wasn’t important to my parents, and it wasn’t a priority for my husband and me.

But as I approached my 50th birthday, my feelings changed. I think it was our empty nest that heightened my longing for a spiritual community. When Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kipper arrived, and I watched groups of earnest men and women, prayer books in hand, walking to High Holiday services, I wanted --very much -- to belong.

So in 1987, my husband and I began a search for the perfect synagogue and settled on the Jewish Reconstructionist Congregation in Evanston. After dipping a toe in weekly services, I decided to go all the way in, and become a Bat Mitzvah.

Like my first plunge, I knew that fitting my Judaism studies in with my schedule would be difficult. (At the time, I was operating a busy public relations business.) But, I had my life preserver at the ready: If I couldn’t hack it, I told myself, I could quit.

First, I enrolled in a year-long study of Judaism typically designed for converts, then hired a private tutor to teach me Biblical Hebrew. I must admit: there were times I considered dropping out. Have you ever seen a Torah page? It’s all in Hebrew! No punctuation marks for clues. Hundreds of  people would be watching and listening me read from it.

But I struggled on for two years, and finally, on May 6, 1989, before 300 amazed family members and friends, I stood nervously at the Bimah [podium], chanting my Torah portion.

The final momentous event in my list occurred in 1998. Eight years after my first marriage ended, I married again. Okay, here my LBYL philosophy needs some adjusting. I’m not encouraging you to think of any marriage in a six-month bite; but the leap that took me from single life to a Las Vegas wedding was, in many ways, similar to the one that landed me a master’s degree and Bat Mitzvah. I’ll explain:

After my divorce, when I felt ready to date, I wrote this ad for the Personals: “DJF seeks widowed or divorced JM, 55-65, health-oriented, gray-hair, with grown children. Should be financially secure, college educated, a city dweller, and early riser. Reads NYT, listens to NPR, and watches Masterpiece Theater. Loves dogs, jazz, Stephen Sondheim, and ethnic restaurants. 

When I first met Tommy – on the street where I lived, not through the ad – I realized my preferred profile would need alteration. While his age, marital status, and most indulgences were on target, some key requirements were missing.

Tommy was not Jewish, never went to college, was childless, lived on a very limited budget, and his hair – what remained – was brown.

Here’s where the leap comes in. In my other journeys, where I knew the waters might be rough, I chose to focus on the chance the trip might turn out enjoyable, and the other shore, fabulous.

I put aside the profile, and decided instead to be flexible – and to leap. That’s how I came to discover these attributes: Tommy was friendly, kind, curious, intelligent, and self-reliant. He was a superb athlete, a life-giving gardener to my pathetic plants, and handy around the house.

We dated, and after two years began to discuss marriage. Three close friends – who have elected to remain unmarried to their long-time partners – questioned my sanity: “Why mess up a good thing? You’ll lose your independence. Why do you want to be a wife again?”

How to explain the feeling that marriage was appropriate for us? “Boyfriend” sounds silly at 60; “partner” too business-like. “Husband” is just right. Both of us wanted to wrap our commitment to each other with bands of gold.

We considered possible dates and sites for a big wedding celebration, but instead of waiting, decided to leap, and to turn a weekend in Las Vegas, already on the calendar, into a marriage ceremony and intimate wedding party.

On January 13, in the Wedding Chapel of the Treasure Island Hotel, with 16  people watching, my two daughters escorted Tommy down the aisle to a tape of “I’m Glad There Is You” sung by jazz great Johnny Hartmann.

A heartfelt ecumenical minister – who didn’t look a bit like Elvis – performed the ceremony; and in keeping with Jewish tradition, my gentile Tommy raised his just-married right foot to smash a napkin-wrapped wine glass.

We recently celebrated our first wedding anniversary, and although I can’t predict the future; for us, marriage feels great.

I push my LBYL philosophy on many: college graduates still waiting tables because they can’t decide a career, widows and divorcees isolated in suburban houses, and retirement-age friends who won’t leave their jobs because they’re afraid they’ll be bored.

When a young waiter lists his woes, along with the daily specials, I offer my six- month plan. Immediately, there’s a sigh of relief. “That’s all?” he’ll say. “I don’t have to commit to a job longer than that?” I nod “yes,” but know that six months may turn to a year; that one blame-free exploration will likely lead to others. And that one day he will find his heart’s desire and stay put.

Two friends – one a widow, the other a divorcee – who were similarly treading water, came to me for advice. Each was stuck in a suburban family home. Each longed for a lift in her life, but was afraid to make a move. Both bought into my philosophy. They held on to their homes, but agreed to explore city apartments.

You know the happy endings: Before the timer dinged, my friends loved their new settings, sold the old homesteads, and now years later, own their own condos.

To my dear friend hesitating on the brink of retirement, I propose: Give yourself permission to return to a job if you can’t bear the looseness, and think of the glorious possibilities ahead. “You can travel,” I tell her, “read novels at your leisure, take classes on favorite subjects, spoil your grandchildren, and, let’s do lunch.”

I should confess that some of my enthusiastic plunges didn’t turn out as well as the ones listed here. My desire to be an agile tennis player, a proficient swimmer, retail store owner, an accomplished pianist?

Up there in the closet, smooshed together, are the tennis racket, improvement tapes, cans of balls, and darling white shorts. Next to them, the swim fins, cap, and goggles. And in a file box at the bottom of the closet, the market research, logo sketch, and business plan for “DIET RIOT! – A New Store Devoted to the Recreational Dieter.”

The piano? I’m still at it, but it’s Rogers and Hart, not Rachmaninoff. That’s me you hear pinging and counting my way through “Blue Moon” -- tolerant young teacher  at my side.

Are my leaping days over? Does Tommy worry that my willingness to plunge will one day find this happy couple in parts unknown, Katmandu perhaps. Or even worse, swing dancing?

A little mystery is good for romance, don’t you think?

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