Many couples create elaborate themes for their weddings, often involving colors and styles of bridesmaids’ dresses (who among us has not been traumatized by a ruffled, puffy-sleeved abomination?), floral arrangements pricey enough to denude five gardens’ worth of plants, and over-the-top touches like champagne fountains, pyrotechnics, and live alpacas? 

For my new husband Paul and me, simple nuptials seemed appropriate. We were marrying 37 years, four months, and 10 days after we met, when this soft-spoken Irish-Catholic from Michigan pulled out the cork that I, a child of Holocaust survivors, had jammed in a wine bottle at a 1987 Ides of March party, and subsequently lodged himself deep, deep inside my heart.

Our theme best expressed by the cake topper perched jauntily atop our wedding cake: ‘F—king Finally!’ 

In the months leading up to our diminutive in scale (25 guests) but gargantuan in joy beachside wedding at The Soundview Hotel in Long Island’s wine country last July, I had one wish. 

Sure, I longed for perfect weather. And to miraculously not stain the shimmering Bellini-peach halter cocktail dress which made my galumphing 4’10” frame appear glamorous and graceful. At least not before my sister Barb (aka the matron of honor) and I made our way down the runner toward Paul and best man Jack in matching linen Tommy Bahama ensembles, topped by sunglasses and fedoras.

Given that a high percentage of our guests, along with the bride and groom, were eligible for Social Security (Paul and I were 69 and 67 respectively), my predominant “ask” for this day of days was for all of us to remain cognizant and relatively mobile.

We Weren’t Marriage Virgins

A bit about our long road to marriage: At the end of our first date, what 29-year-old me intended as a “You’re a great guy but I can’t see you again” peck (because marrying a non-Jew would break my parents’ hearts) turned into a kiss that to both of us felt like fireworks, rainbows, shooting stars…and homecoming.

Paul, then 32, was the first—and last—romantic partner I’ve considered trustworthy and mensch-y (Yiddish for honorable) enough to father potential children. His first marriage was annulled. The point of no return was his then-wife throwing his clothes out a window of their home.

I had a blessed-by-a-rabbi union to a psychopath spendthrift who lied as reliably as the sun rises and sets.

As for me, I had a 3 ½-year, blessed-by-a-rabbi union to man who turned out to be a psychopath spendthrift who lied as reliably as the sun rises and sets. The best thing about our marriage was that my ex and I had no children tying us together.

Desperately wanting out, I allowed myself to be pressured into signing a separation agreement sans lawyer (basically the only thing I retained custody of was our cat). My ex filed for bankruptcy, his creditors pounced, and I declared insolvency at age 23. So much for marriage!

Scarred but Hopeful

For nearly four years after that first meeting (I think of it as the cork pop heard around the world), Paul and I struggled to figure out a way to build a future together. He was open to an interfaith marriage, but I couldn’t envision how to jump over what felt like the Grand Canyon of romantic obstacles.  

When I finally brought him home to meet mom and dad, my mother Bronka accused: “Sherry, you’re giving your father a heart’s attack.” 

My parents would have eventually come around. Indeed, years later, mom wrote her still-single daughter an infuriating letter proclaiming, “I didn’t realize he was your last chance.” 

My mom wrote me an infuriating letter saying, “I didn’t realize he was your last chance.”

But in 1991, Paul and I lacked the tools and life experience to fathom that the universe was offering us an opportunity rare as an aurora borealis sighting in midtown, and we went our separate ways.

Even after our breakup, we stayed in touch. When one tentatively tested the waters of a possible reconciliation, the other was obtuse or otherwise romantically involved. In 1998, Paul called me at work to share his upcoming nuptials.

Over 18 years of marriage, Paul’s wife might have deserved the name “She Who Shall Not Be Named” among his family back in Michigan. After the honeymoon, she disavowed her promise to have a child, left her job, and launched a “career” of blaming Paul for everything that was wrong in her life.

However, the thin veil masking her Voldemort lineage ripped off following the 2001 death of Paul’s beloved sister Diane from cancer. His then-wife refused to babysit Diane’s son so the grieving family could pick out a headstone. As I later told Paul: “If I’d known how horrible she was, I’d have dragged you out by the hair.”

All About Our New Beginning

However, until 2015 when Paul marked his 61^st birthday by finally leaving his wife, we’d mostly followed one another’s lives via Facebook updates, irregular phone calls. and a handful of in person meetings. (The latter typically happened when I suffered a tech mishap!)

Now a licensed clinical social worker and author of three relationship books, I told Paul: “You need to learn how to put yourself first.” His answer: “Agreed. But you’ve always been the love of my life.” 

After following each other’s lives via Facebook, we met again, and he said, ‘You’ve always been the love of my life.’

During our decades apart, I’d had several long-term relationships but none worthy of forever. The major reason I regretted never remarrying was mom and dad passing without seeing their “baby” happily coupled. 

Sherry and Paul take two were wise enough to understand that the qualities intrinsic to our partnership—100% trustworthiness, tolerance, kindness, respect and the ability to communicate and compromise—were sacrosanct.

We were at each other’s side during the 2017 death of Paul’s mom and my trip to Berlin to speak at a summit of Wellness Leaders. The latter occasion was the first time I’d stepped foot on German soil since accompanying my father Berek in 1984. He was there giving testimony against a Nazi accused of brutality against Jews in dad’s hometown Lodz, Poland.

Paul moved into my Queens, New York, apartment the day after I was diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer, just as the COVID pandemic was shutting down the city. Over the next eight months, he ferried me to and from over 80 medical appointments, including a lumpectomy, nine rounds of chemo, and four weeks of radiation. I remain cancer-free. 

With parenthood no longer a goal, there seemed no need to legalize our forever bond. Then, four days after a close friend died from pancreatic cancer, Paul shocked me with diamond studs and a proposal. The few people we FaceTimed that early November evening responded to the prospect of our late-in-life marriage with two words: “Yay!” and “Finally.” 

Our Wedding-Planning North Star

In the months preceding my first wedding, my gut knew I was headed for hell. Pepto Bismol was always at hand. This time around, none was needed.

My spiritual sister and marriage officiant Sloan scouted out the location. My sole directives had been ‘beachfront’ and ‘won’t bankrupt us’. 

When I moaned that the only way to afford even a casual wedding was to become the Golden Bachelorette, she reminded me, “The day is all about you and Paul. Everyone else is just thrilled this is finally happening! We could eat McDonalds out of paper bags.”

I asked my fiancé for input: “You have more experience in the wedding planning department.”

Our North Star became: Does this reflect our journey together and what we care about?

We didn’t care about lavish floral centerpieces, a gift registry, D.J., or videographer. The invitation read: Dress Code: Clothes Required.

Our invitation read, ‘Dress Code: Clothes Required.’ We just wanted our guests to be comfortable.

I explained to loved ones begging for more guidance: “You can wear shorts and t-shirts or ball gowns and tuxes…Be comfortable.”

Paul and I searched through old albums (in my case, plastic storage bins stuffed with faded Kodak snapshots) and iPhones and solicited photos from guests to chart the lovebirds’ journey in collages. Close friend and photographer Kenny Ng offered his services to commemorate the day.

My 11th-hour quest for a marriage license was nearly derailed by the discovery that the required documents included my 1982 divorce decree. I whined to a sadistically indifferent city clerk: “Have you seen my file cabinets? Besides, my ex remarried twice and died in 2022!” Those factoids were gleaned during insomniac Googling. Since I’d spent my married years marooned in Hackensack, getting this missing document necessitated a field trip to Trenton Superior Court. But it was worth it.

Marriage After 60: With Age, a Different Perspective on “Perfection”

As a couples’ therapist, I’ve witnessed numerous engagements nearly shipwrecked along the shoals of pre-wedding stress. In our case, there were numerous mini-calamities: out-of-state guests facing delayed flights; my carsick dog upchucking on me on the way to his sitter; predicted rain threatening to foil our outdoor ceremony; and the constant drip-drip-drip of unforeseen last-minute expenses. I grumbled: “At least oxygen is still free.”

But when I walked toward the wrought-iron arbor toward my ebullient groom to Etta James’ version of At Last, the usual cacophony in my mind stilled. The joy on everyone’s faces—particularly my sister Barb—nearly upended my resolution to keep tears from desecrating my $285 makeup job. 

In his vows, Paul proclaimed: “Soulmate has been, is, and will always be the best way to describe the depth of my love and devotion to you.” I said: “I know in heaven our parents are dancing a combination Irish Jig and Hora.”

After pronouncing us husband and wife, the crowd was invited to shout: “Finally!”

After pronouncing us husband and wife, Sloan invited the crowd to shout: “Finally!”

Mr. and Ms. Amatenstein-Kelly walked back up the aisle toward our future to the tune of Follow the Yellow Brick Road.

During the reception—a three-hour joyfest punctuated by numerous hugs, Prosecco toasts, and unquenchable laughter—I was asked if I felt “different.” My answer: “I’m unbelievably grateful.” 

On the way home, Paul suggested we stop at the cemetery housing the remains of my parents to reassure them he would always be at my side.

As we headed toward our car after our graveside visit, I felt my mother’s spirit nagging me. “What’s your message, Bronka?” I asked. The exasperated answer from beyond the grave: “Finally!”

Photographs by Kenny Ng