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1. Wallace Witherspoon, Jr.

One warm night in May, in the back of the hearse, while
I was whispering “I love you, I love you,” into Lauralei
Rabinowitz’ soft, black hair, she said, “Stop right there,
Wally! There are three reasons this can’t go on any longer!”

“Three reasons?” I said.

“Three reasons,” she said, sitting up, reaching into her
blazer pocket for her comb. She combed her hair while she
told me what they were.

“One,” she said, “you’re not Jewish.”

“Two,” she said, “you’re shorter than I am.”

“And three,” she said, “you’re going to be an undertaker.”

“You knew all that!” I complained.

“I know I knew all that,” she said, “but I couldn’t stop
myself before. Now I’m stopping myself.”

“You can’t!” I insisted. “I’ll probably want to marry you
someday.”

“I just did,” said Lauralei Rabinowitz, “and I’d never
marry you in a million years, Wally Witherspoon.”

So much for ancient history. I am now unofficially
engaged to Harriet Hren, who does want to marry me,
isn’t Jewish, and standing, even in heels, just reaches my
shoulder.