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I haven’t slept through a night in about 2 wks. Therefore, neither has Josh. He thinks I can’t sleep because I am worried about how fat I am. This is fairly accurate, as I AM worried about how fat I am. I think I’m also having trouble being happy. That sounds so strange, but it’s true. I think it’s the reason I put on weight in the first place. I simply cannot accept that my life is good, and so I quietly sabotage myself. This is a special kind of stupid that defies IQ. I will spend the next few days trying to get over myself.

I have this hilarious story to tell about the day I fractured my spine. Not funny? Ha! It’s hilarious. You just have to look at it the right way. The fact that I’m completely fine except for a little bit of arthritis makes it even funnier. I promise. Let me tell you about it…

My brother and I were on spring break 1994. I was at Barnard College, and he was at Exeter. We both wanted to go somewhere great, and the only thing we could get our parents to fund was a trip for just the two of us to Florida. From the minute we arrived everyone referred to us as “Mr. and Mrs. Blank”, which suited us fine because they thought we were old enough to drink. Mostly we just hung out. We sat by the pool, went for walks and ate at the very posh hotel restaurant. The hotel had a great stable, and we were both excited by the idea of riding. We had both gone riding before, so we took one or two lessons, and then scheduled a trail ride around the golf course for our last day of the trip. This was going to be a way for us to get one last look at the grounds before heading back to reality.

The trail ride was for the early afternoon, and we were leaving immediately after that to go to the airport. Our bags were with the valet, as we had already checked out. Just one last adventure. We hit the trail with the instructor, and enjoyed the view. Somehow, Paul and I got ahead of the instructor. I remember she had to wait for something, but I can’t remember what. Anyway, no big deal, it’s a trail. Around a golf course. How hard could that be? We rode ahead a few yards. I guess we were riding next to each other so we could talk. We were on these gorgeous retired race horses, and I suppose that when they got next to each other, they perceived it, in their little horsie brains, to mean they were racing. The pace increased - the instructor later estimated to around 40 mph. I don’t know if I panicked, or if I just didn’t have the athleticism to balance as we went around that turn…but I flew. Horse went left, fatgirl went right. Nothing but a blimp in a Depeche Mode t-shirt flying through the air. I had that “time slowing down” sensation, and it felt like I was up there for about ten minutes. That gave me processing time, in which I realized that I had better make sure I didn’t land on something important. Something soft and unimportant, hmmmm, oh right, I have an ass.

I hit the ground ass first. Given, that softened the blow to things like, for example, my head, which only touched the ground during the inevitable somersault. So now, I do a limb check. Arms work, and so do legs. Teeth? One chip, but otherwise all there. Nose? Not broken. Ass? Uh oh. I had clearly broken my ass. I’m the daughter of an orthopedist though, so by the time my brother made it to me (he had thrown himself from his horse, landing in a thicket of thorn bushes when he saw me fly, which is the only reason I’ve forgiven him for his other actions that day), I very calmly told him that I had fractured my coccyx and lower spine. He told me I was full of shit, and to stand up. I, remaining serenely calm, explained that I could not stand up for fear of greater damage, and that I needed to be strapped to a backboard.

Fortunately, we were on a golf course when all this happened. If we had not been, I don’t think anyone would have had a cellphone handy. Remember, it was 1994, and “portable phones” were barely past the era where they were bigger than your purse. Someone called 911 just as the riding instructor caught up to us and panicked. She gave me even more ingenious advice than my brother. Mostly she just stood there.

The EMT’s arrived, and tried to lift me onto the backboard. I probably weighed about 190 at this point, so two of them were just barely sufficient. One took my legs and the other my shoulders. They then placed my legs and shoulders on the backboard. Unfortunately, my ass was still on the ground. I had no ability to control that part of my body, and the “dead weight” of my torso had forced it to act as a separate limb from the rest of me. Calm as ever, I said “someone is going to have to go back and get my ass”. My brother laughed, but no one else found that funny.

At this point I started to go into shock. How do I know? The blackout and the icy body temp sort of gave it away. The EMT’s noticed it too, and they told me to keep talking. I asked them what I should say, and they suggested I recite something I knew really well from memory so that I could stay focused. I broke into the prologue of the Canterbury Tales in the Middle English. They thought I had a head injury, and that I was blacking out. Paul was laughing too hard to explain that I was an English major, and that this was as normal as I got.

Once on the ambulance, the EMT’s decided that they should put in an IV in case it was needed when we arrived at the hospital. This is SOP, so it didn’t trigger any questions from me. I’m strapped to the backboard though, so I can’t see my own arm, and I’m in shock, so I can’t feel any pain. All of a sudden I hear my brother screaming like someone is attacking him, and he’s pointing at my arm in horror. Turns out the EMT’s put in the IV all wrong, and blood was now spurting into the air from my arm. Lovely. And now that Paul’s as in shock as I am, that’ll be useful as we arrive at the hospital.

When we got to the hospital they took me off for x-rays, and my brother started making phone calls. First he called my parents, who became slightly hysterical. Then he called some of my parents’ friends because he considered them likely to send flowers. Then, and I couldn’t make this up if I tried, he made plans to catch the plane we were scheduled for that afternoon. He got a ride back to the hotel, picked up his bags, and got on the plane. Left me. In a hospital in Florida. The flowers and my mother arrived the next morning, but for that night I was alone, unable to move.

When my mother arrives they start explaining things to her. I have crushed three vertebrae. I’ll be fine, but it will take a while to recover. I’ll need a brace. Oh, and I have to poop before I can leave the hospital. My mother then scheduled a flight out for the next day, and told me to either poop or lie and say I had. Fabulous parenting. I lied, and we made our flight. I spent the entire ride on the floor of the airplane bathroom, feeling like I was going to throw up. I made it though, and a few days later I was back at school. I even went to most of my classes within 5 days of the accident.

This is really the story of why no one gets to complain to me about back pain, or to tell me who’s tough. I know tough. It makes me feel good to know that when I had to fight, I could. Still, you’ve got to admit it’s pretty funny. Personally, I kept the Depeche Mode t-shirt I flew in so that I could mean it when I say “been there, done that, got the t-shirt”.

When we were little, my mother thought that my brother and I had nothing in common. She thought I was mild, kind and intelligent, and that he was a mischevious dolt. I was always the biggest loser in the school, and he was the president of the student government. I was last picked for the soccer team and first picked for the math team, and he was one of the best athletes in the school but didn’t get into the gifted program. Okay, actually I was picked second for math behind Debbie James, but give me a break, the woman’s a genius. Of course, everyone had Paul and me pegged wrong. Make no mistake, I’m a horrid athlete, but it turns out that I can be social and fun and that Paul’s IQ can’t reveal the depth of his intelligence. He does have things I don’t, and he makes me so proud to be his sister.

I remember when I first knew that Paul had something unique. I wouldn’t have put it this way at the time - mostly because I was only 12 years old, but the kid had the biggest set of balls I’ve ever seen. As he had just turned 10, that’s pretty impressive. I knew VP’s, CEO’s and Managing Partners of major companies. I knew surgeons who literally held other people’s lives in their hands on a daily basis. This 10 year old put them all to shame. I had never before then, and never since then, been so impressed.

Paul was on the local little league. They don’t win any awards, and as far as I know they’ve never been the start of a star player, but come summer the moms come out in droves to cheer on their little boys as if it’s the World Series and show support of their sons with an edge of vicious competition. My brother’s team was in the semi-finals of the league, so now this was for the “big time”. As the big sister, I had to be there with my mother in the bleachers cheering him on. It was a gorgeous summer evening, and Paul’s team was doing okay in the game. I don’t remember who was ahead, but I know it was fairly close, which made the tension high. Paul got up to bat, and hit a solid single. The next kid came up, and Paul advanced to third. Then another kid came to bat. Like everyone else there, I’m focused on the batter. I want to see if it’s a ball or a strike, and whether to yell at my brother “run” for a line drive or “stay” for an easy lob. Out of the corner of my eye I saw motion at third base. I gasped along with everyone else in the bleachers. My brother was trying to steal home plate. There had been no wild pitch, or in fact any pitch at all. There was no one on second. The whole place was still waiting for the pitch, and Paul just took off running. The incredible thing is that he made it. He stole home plate. Given, mostly because he had startled and confused a 9 1/2 year old pitcher who didn’t know what to do, but he had stolen home plate. There was nothing to do but cheer.

The absolute resolution to get to the goal no matter what it takes impressed the heck out of me. Even my mother saying “what kind of an idiot tries to steal home plate?” didn’t interfere with my amazement. Every success he’s had since makes perfect sense. He was going to get to the top - there was never a doubt in my mind. I’ve never been jealous of that. It just is who he was born to be, and I love him for it. Plus, he’s still got balls of steel.

I had to resist the temptation to title this post “what’s in a name?” so that I could avoid death by cliche. I’ve always known that I would keep my name when I married. I knew that whether I was dating someone with a “good” name, a “bad” name, or no one at all. I’ve always made a point of telling men I’m serious with that I would not change my name. I didn’t do it because I was contemplating marriage yet necessarily, but rather because it is a wonderful litmus test. A guy’s reaction indicates a lot about how controlling he is. My favorite response, and in fact the surprising winner for most common response, is “but don’t you want to be a family?” I don’t understand why having two different last names makes you less of a family. If I changed my name I’d have a different last name from my parents, but would still be a part of their family. “But don’t you want to be a family” feels like a sneaky way of manipulating girl emotions into the desired outcome. It’s almost as bad as using the desire for children to get the woman to change her name.

A lot of women I know change their names, and very few have done it for reasons I understand. A reason I understand would be that the woman just wants to change. It could be because that’s what she was raised to believe she should do, or because she prefers the man’s name, or whatever she likes, as long as it’s what SHE wants. All other reasons are totally foreign to me. Among the really precious ones would be “my husband told me he wouldn’t marry me if I didn’t change my name” or the even better “my father-in-law told me I wasn’t allowed to marry my husband unless I changed my name.” Do none of these men realize that ultimately it’s none of their business? It is the woman’s name, and hers alone to change or keep. I can see why it’s something a couple would discuss and maybe even compromise on, but not why it’s something the man would stake the marriage on. It’s not his!

The first time naming came up with Josh it was very early in our relationship, but far enough on that we were serious. I told him I wanted to stay Blank. His response was “could our sons be named Pitlick?” I said that would be fine, and that I expected my children would take their father’s name as I did. That was the end of the discussion, and as we both had input, we were both comfortable with the outcome. I have also failed to jump on my high horse for this one - I’m answering to Mrs. Pitlick despite my instinct to edit.

What’s surprising to me is how upset people have gotten that I stayed Janet Blank. I didn’t think that anyone outside of our immediate families would care. I know women who have kept their names, and for me it is a non-event. Little did I know…the first day back at work after the wedding everyone kept coming to my office asking what my name was. I would say “Janet Blank”, and smile so they’d know I had a good nature about the question. A few of these people thought I called off the wedding. Others wanted to know why I would do such a thing. Several asked what to call me if they saw me out with Josh. I received calls from clients and vendors asking what my email address would be. Some friends, particularly the ones who have changed their names, wanted to know why I would make this decision. “This is the decision Josh and I made” did not seem to be sufficient. They wanted reasons. I didn’t really have any other than that this is what I wanted - I let them offer reasons and then just agreed. “Is it because you’re an older bride?” Sure, that sounds reasonable. “Is it because of your career?” Yes, of course, my career, I have 420 unused business cards and the paperwork would be too messy. Must be that.

At the end of the day I’m just happy being who I am. Because I love words and give them strong meaning I really value names. Names give definition to what otherwise are just objects. For whatever reason, going by any other name didn’t feel right. I am who I am. It’s just me.

I don’t remember most of my wedding. Everyone I know who’s married warned me about that, but I didn’t believe them. They definitely knew what they were talking about. The whole thing is such a blur, so I’m really glad I listened to the advice to hire a videographer. When we sat down to eat, I asked Josh what time it was, and he told me it was 3PM. I made him check against someone else’s watch because I didn’t believe him. What a whirlwind.

I didn’t know if I’d cry walking down the aisle. I cry at other people’s weddings, but I figured with that many sets of eyes on me I’d be too self-conscious. I was wrong. Boy did I cry. Right before we walked down the aisle, my father started crying and said “I wish my mother was here”. So then my mom started thinking about her parents, also gone, and I started thinking about all three of them. Next thing you know, the three of us are cued to walk, so we’re absolutely weeping and trying to make it down the aisle at the same time. Another thing that made this harder was that I was veiled with the usual tulle, and it was SO HOT under there. I felt like it was 140 degrees and I was melting. Then when I got under the chuppah with Josh, I was supposed to circle him seven times, counter-clockwise, only I couldn’t figure out which way counter-clockwise was. Once I started the circle, I stumbled, and my dress got caught on my shoe. I didn’t fall, but I wasn’t able to get the shoe free of the hem. Knowing that I would have to crouch and fuss with my dress, and not wanting to do that on video, I took my chances and walked six and a half more times around stepping on my hem. Fortunately I made it without either falling or ripping the dress, and no one else knew there had been a problem.

Everyone says they loved the ceremony. I think they mean it because usually people feel compelled to compliment you on the reception, but compliments on the ceremony aren’t mandatory. I felt very lucky to have a rabbi who was also a friend as that made it very personal. The ceremony was what really mattered to me - I figured everything at the reception should just be left to the professionals - and I’m glad it felt personal and like it represented both who Josh and I are individually and together.

I could go on and on about every detail, but I don’t think it’s very interesting to anyone else. I’m just glad that all my friends from my different walks of life blended well and enjoyed meeting each other. It was good to have everyone there, I loved my flowers, and the food was great.

The next two days we spent in the hotel, and those were amazing as well. Josh woke me up the next morning, nuzzled me, and told me I still had that new wife smell. I’m hoping I keep it for a while. We drank a lot of champagne and enjoyed just being with each other. Now we’re back at work, and that seems surreal as well. I’m waiting to find out what will be different in our relationship now. Josh doesn’t think it will be much, but I think it will be little subtle things. I hope it will be for the better. When we finally dig out of the packing peanuts that came in the Bloomingdale’s boxes I guess we’ll find out.