Mayim Rabim

So there I was, unhappy with the idea of trying to fit myself into a mikvah schedule I didn't understand in the jam-packed days before my wedding, and equally unhappy with the idea of my first immersion taking place like some kind of nasty secret at night. Something had to give. As it turned out, it was the mikvah.

Some time back, Eli and I had made arrangements to travel to a large Northeastern city for a professional conference of his about six weeks before the wedding. Said city had (and has) a recently opened liberal-run mikvah. A few weeks before our departure, I thought about both of these things simultaneously, and before I could lose my nerve, I called and left a message requesting an appointment. The woman who called me back was friendly, sympathetic, and professional; she answered my questions about how long it would take to reach the mikvah from our hotel, and she made me an appointment for the one morning we would be in that city after I'd taken off my birth-control patch (but before there was any real chance of my period starting). Even better, they emailed me a confirmation -- and their website was gorgeous. So I packed extra Q-tips in my luggage and off we went.

The liberal mikvah was (and is) gorgeous. The preparation rooms are ceramic tile and cherry wood and gleaming modern chrome fixtures, with enough toiletries to constitute a small spa. The instructions on the wall are phrased as a series of "kavvanot," which is kind of goofy, but they're still observably instructions (and nothing there I didn't already know). I had spent half the morning at the hotel scrubbing various parts of me, so that rinsing off in their shower was merely refreshing -- and slipping into the pool felt great. It was warm, only faintly chlorinated, and the mikvah attendant had me open the pipe to the rainwater source myself, so that I felt the two temperatures blend. There was daylight coming in through high dormer windows. Nobody asked me anything except whether I knew the blessings and whether I had any questions; I only asked the mikvah lady to check my back for hairs and to leave me alone in the mikvah for a few minutes after immersion. Their mikv
aot, you see, are these tall stone chambers, and I could tell they'd have great acoustics. I sang as many psalms as I knew by heart before I returned to the prep room.

So that was my first immersion, and afterwards I made my way back to the hotel and dealt with various work-related chores of my own, with shipping books home from the conference, and with going out for the conference's final dinner. Each task made me feel a little bit grimier. By the end of the day, I had independently figured out why nighttime immersions might be preferable: ten hours is too long for that post-mikvah buzz to really last. (At one point, I reflected that the result of wearing metaphysical lingerie all day is probably a metaphysical wedgie.) Somehow, though, we managed.

Of course, my period came three days later, right on schedule, and I knew I had only postponed the problem -- I did actually want to immerse before my wedding, no matter what anyone else said. ("But you already did it," my mother said, baffled.) Only now everything seemed clearer: I knew what I was doing, and it was my choice. I called up the local Mikvah Lady and said I needed an appointment on Thursday such-and-such. I didn't explain that it was ten days before my wedding and the absolute last evening not Shabbat, Yom Tov, or inhabited by mandatory familywide dinners; scheduling, I had decided, was my prerogative. Through no fault of my own, I wound up with a ladies-only wedding shower earlier that evening, so I even had a party, although it ran later than scheduled and pretty well nuked my prep time. Thank G-d I'd done it before, so I knew what I was doing!

The local mikvah isn't as pretty as the one out of town -- standard institutional fixtures in the bathroom, standard toiletries (if you forget your toothbrush like I did), vanity sink not quite working (I washed my hands under the bathtub faucet after a final pee) -- but all the right stuff was there. I read the instructions on the wall and rolled my eyes at what I knew to be a particularly stringent set of rules being labeled "halachah," then panicked and cut my fingernails short Just In Case. In person, however, the Mikvah Lady was friendly and slightly maternal; she didn't check anything I didn't ask her to, and although the immersion wasn't quite as ecstatic as my first time, it felt good. Thanks to the resultant high, I acceded to the posted "halachah" of not showering after the mikvah (note: eau de chlorine = NOT sexy), cheerfully swapped birth-control patches, and wrote a check (note: the local mikvah is a lot cheaper than the Big-City Liberal Mikvah) with
good cheer.

When the Mikvah Lady asked where I lived as I handed the check over, I wondered if she was fishing for demographic information, but it turned out she needed a ride home -- the only other woman dipping that night wanted to swing by the grocery store so she could tell her kids that's where she'd been. Anyway, the Mikvah Lady didn't live much out of my way, and it was pleasant to chat with someone on the way home, even if we didn't quite speak the same language. ("Who's your rov?" she asked. "My what?" I said, distracted by driving. "Your RAB-BI," she enunciated carefully. "Ohhhhh," I said.) She reminded me that any prayers I held in my heart on my wedding day were sure to be fulfilled, and I believed her.

I suppose that's the end of my mikvah story, really, except that I have been nudging my RAB-BI to take up the issue of bridal mikvah scheduling with the Powers That Be who run the kivah, and to maybe put a little educational material into the wedding packets he hands out during premarital counseling. I also seem to keep reading about T"H -- I suppose it's become a habit. I haven't been to the mikvah since my wedding, but I've thought about it each time I end my period, and very nearly went once except for the inconvenience of needing an extra patch. Maybe at my next gyn appointment I'll ask about mikvah-friendly alternatives to the patch. Or maybe I'll just wait till we start trying for a family -- it won't be all that long. Meanwhile, I keep reading -- it's gotten to be a habit. And next time I go to the mikvah, at least I'll know how to schedule the appointment.

~ Dulcie

Dulcie is a thirtyish Jewish woman who averages out Conservative; she is writing about her experiences with tongue firmly planted in cheek. This essay is the final one of a three-part series; the first essay is available here, and the second essay is available here.