Robert Schenk and Jennifer Wallack
Met: Aug. 19, 1998
Engaged: March 22, 2002
Projected Wedding Date: May 17, 2003
It’s tough being 15 and female and six feet tall among the weenie men at Dalton. “My high-school boyfriend was like 5-foot-9,” said Jennifer Wallack, now 24 and a publicist at the fashion-focused firm London Misher. “I’d look down on him.”
Her mom’s best friend Ava would try to be helpful, telling her, “Oh, you should meet my cousin-he’s so cute, he’s so tall !” The nagging went on for years, but the big guy never materialized … until one fateful summer when Robert Schenk, 6-foot-6 and working as an assistant golf pro somewhere in Jersey, ran into Ms. Wallack’s parents at a bar mitzvah and was passed pictures of a long-legged beauty with silky black hair. Hubba hubba !
The next week, he showed up at her family’s Upper East Side apartment with a dozen red roses.
“I opened the door and took one look at him and I was like, ‘ Whoa !’” said Ms. Wallack. “My mom says we both turned a shade of red that doesn’t exist in the rainbow when we saw each other.”
“I’d built her up in my head quite a bit after hearing all these stories,” Mr. Schenk said. “I certainly knew it wasn’t going to be short-term once she opened the door.”
A pub crawl that evening down Second Avenue concluded with a smooch on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Ms. Wallack floated back home at 4 a.m., and Mom and Dad piled into bed with her. ” So ?” they said.
“I’m going to marry him!” she gushed.
But first she had to get her bachelor’s in communications from the University of Michigan, where Mr. Schenk, a Lafayette College grad, was soon making twice-monthly pilgrimages, the couple’s ankles dangling off the single bed she had at Kappa Alpha Theta. Back in N.Y.C., Mr. Schenk began working for Ms. Wallack’s father’s real-estate company. Not long after she graduated, the lanky lovers moved into a one-bedroom near her parents, where they sprung for a queen-size sleigh bed (custom-ordered sans footboard) and lined their shelves with snapshots in golf-themed frames.
“He has a better swing than Tiger,” said Ms. Wallack meaningfully.
One night she left a Tiffany catalog on the nightstand, and before long she was back outside the Met, where Mr. Schenk stood a few steps below her and asked her to be his wife with a triplet of round-cut diamonds. Later, she reciprocated with a membership to the Elmwood country club in Westchester.
They’ll be married at Tavern on the Green. Ms. Wallack will wear Vera Wang. And low heels. “When I hug him, his chin hits my head, and I’d never hugged someone like that before,” she said.
Peter Corbin and Wendy Rose
Met: Sept. 23, 2000
Engaged: March 26, 2002
Projected Wedding Date: Dec. 21, 2002
We have some bad news for Tinkerbell …
Peter Corbin is 31, but on some level he obviously doesn’t want to grow up. Dark-haired and bronzed, he’s spent the past 20 summers at Camp Robin Hood in Freedom, N.H., where he’s now program director. The rest of the year he runs a program called Corbin’s Crusaders Sports Club, which allows cooped-up city tykes to simulate suburban soccer-playing brats for a few hours each afternoon.
He found his Wendy quite literally in the form of Wendy Rose, an older (she’s 36), curvy, green-eyed blonde who represents child models at the Ford Agency. Her brother, a Robin Hood alumnus, met Mr. Corbin at a camp reunion and invited him to a dinner party that Ms. Rose was throwing at Serafina on Lafayette Street. Peter and Wendy, the only single people at the party, wound up sharing a white pizza, and he showed maturity and called the next day.
“She’s my Wendy Darling,” said Mr. Corbin. “She has a lot of love to give. There’s always a glint in her eye. She never forgets a birthday or an important date. She’s always on top of the little things that matter.” She cleans up after him, too.
“He’s great with kids,” said Ms. Rose. “It’s really cute.” On the rare occasions when she gets cross with him, she threatens to scout his after-school charges for potential “talent.”
They spent their most recent spring break in the British West Indies. After one strenuous morning scooting around on a moped and hunting for seashells, they plopped down on a towel, and he presented her with an emerald-cut diamond framed with two sapphires on a platinum band (which had been cunningly concealed in his bathing trunks) and asked her to fly to Neverland with him.
“Of course!” she said.
The save-the-date card for their wedding at Lord Thompson Manor in Connecticut reads: “Second star to the right and straight on till morning.” If that doesn’t work, there’s always the I-95 ….
Noreen Fishman and Seth Rothman
Met: Fall 1994
Engaged: Nov. 30, 2001
Projected Wedding Date: Dec. 7, 2002
Seth Rothman, 33, is one of those really, really nice guys who somehow slip intact through the jaws of Manhattan.
His best friend had a wife, and the wife had an attractive sister, Noreen Fishman-brown-eyed and olive-skinned, with a memorable birthmark that creates a Susan Sontag–esque white shock in her mane of dark curls. Alas, she wasn’t immediately impressed with Mr. Rothman, a bearded, balding, hazel-eyed options trader. “I was always hearing ‘He’s such a nice guy!’” said Ms. Fishman, 30, who owns a party tchotchke company called A Favor for You.
One night three winters ago, a big group of them went out dancing at Siren on Mulberry Street, and a bunch of skanky guys started hitting on her. And all of a sudden the nice guy seemed cozy, safe … appealing.
“And he’s a good dancer!” she thought, as they grooved to R&B standards.
“I thought she was cute as can be!” said Mr. Rothman. “She’s a nice little petite package.”
That night, he politely stashed the package in a cab.
But the next week found the two of them kissing under a Soho awning as the rain poured down outside. When she had jury duty downtown later that month, he told his boss he had a dentist’s appointment and shot over in a cab to take her to lunch. When she got sick with strep throat, he showed up at her door with homemade chicken soup. They spent a week cuddling, cooing and coughing together.
After less than a year of dating, Mr. Rothman bought a three-carat emerald-cut diamond nestled between two sapphires, and presented it to his lady in front of the tree at Rockefeller Center. “Say yes! Say yes!” roared the crowd. One tourist tried to hug Ms. Fishman, to her dismay.
The wedding, at a bed-and-breakfast upstate, will have a snowman theme, with chocolate-snowman party favors and a large Frosty at the bar that spouts paper snow from its hat. They’ve registered for that classic totem of hopeful couples: a fondue set. Ms. Fishman is content. “Every night before we go to sleep, he’ll tell me he loves me; every morning when I wake up, he tells me he loves me,” she said. “It’s the nicest thing.”
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