Did I mention that The Wedding Date and I are flying to Boston on Friday? No? Well, we are. I’ve known since our third date (which is when I finally started coming to my senses about a certain someone whom-shall-remain-nameless…) but I didn’t want to say anything until after the New Years Eve Martini Bar Soiree, just in case.
Nonetheless, it’s happening: The Wedding Date survived his initiation (which included introductions to my parents, my brother, my grandfather and oh yeah, about two dozen people who’ve been reading about him for the past six months…) and in just 48 hours, he’ll become My Wedding Date.
Two of my friends from college are getting married and seeing as I essentially set them up in the first place (with a bit of help from the bride’s flat mate) I couldn’t be more excited.
The invitation arrived several months ago, addressed to “Miss Kat Richter and Guest.” As I was still quasi-dating He-whom-shall-remain-nameless at the time, I spent several weeks trying to decide if I should invite him (seeing as he’d invited me to his brother’s wedding) or if I should take a chance on this new guy—the one who made me laugh and didn’t leave me questioning my own sanity after every conversation.
It should have been an easy choice (especially given The Wedding Date’s track record: I did my very best to seduce him at the wedding where we met but he danced with me once and only once out of loyalty to his date, even though they were just friends). But you know me… I can turn even the easiest, most obvious decision into a world class debate.
Fortunately, the universe decided to simplify things for me. The Wedding Date and I found ourselves at dinner on the evening of our third date and somehow, inexplicably, we both fell silent somewhere between the clam chowder and our entrees. Silence on a date makes me uncomfortable—especially on a third date—so I did the only rational thing that came to mind: I invited the man seated across from me to fly to Boston.
Only I didn’t phrase it that way. Not at first.
I broke it to him gently (I have, after all, learned a few things about men over the course of the past eighteen months).
I began with the obvious: I know it’s a bit soon but I have this wedding to go to in January. Would you like to come with me?
Upon receiving a positive response, I began to layer on the details: It’s on a Friday, and rather early in the evening. So you’d have to take off work…but I’ll pay for the hotel. And the flight.
Noting that the man in question had yet to fall off his chair or run screaming from the restaurant, I delivered the final blow: It’s in Boston.
Mind you, this is nothing new for me—my friends can never get married in normal places; it’s always Boston or Puerto Rico or Northern Ireland (and these aren’t even destination weddings, I’m simply incapable of befriending locals)—but I wasn’t sure how The Wedding Date would feel about flying to Boston to attend a wedding with a girl he’d only just started dating.
(Especially as Boston in January isn’t nearly as appealing as Northern Ireland in June or Puerto Rico in May…)
But he said “yes.”
In fact, he said, “Why not? It sounds like fun. But there’s no way I’m letting you pay for my ticket.”
(Actually, what he said was a lot funnier than but I’ve got to start keeping some of his jokes private.)
So, long story short, we’re flying to Boston together and I’ve purchased two new dresses (Jomar obviously) to mark the occasion: one to wear on the plane and one to wear for the wedding. Frankly, I’m not sure which part of the weekend I’m more excited about (the wedding part of the flying part)—for all of my international exploits, I’ve never flown anywhere with a man (except my brother) and even though I enjoy flying solo, I’m looking forward to having a partner in crime this time around.
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