“There are snacks and Kleenex in my purse right now. I am like a bridesmaid waiting for a wedding.”
It started, like so many weddings do, with a white dress. Not the wedding dress, which would come later, but a little cotton sundress I found on a rainy San Francisco day. I was waiting for my fiancé to arrive from his nonprofit job so we could walk together to Williams Sonoma and start to register for kitchen utensils. I ducked into a high-end store to get out of the rain.
Yes, Burger King is now paying for the Burger-King wedding, and I hope that at some point on that Skype call the Burger King representative said “have it your way.”
“Couples who make more than $125,000 a year (combined) cut their divorce risk in half.” So, yeah. You don’t have to be wealthy for San Francisco, just wealthy for Arkansas.
I’m getting to that age—the age in your twenties when a portion of your summer is dedicated to witnessing people you know get hitched. This summer was the first time I attended more than one wedding. Some numbers