Saturday, June 05, 2004

The lady that fixed my bridesmaid's dress is about the same size as I am but older and wizened, like the last apple in the barrel, so that she looks smaller. She has a very thick accent that I keep naming as Spanish, arbitrarily, since the only flavor I really get out of it is 'thick'.
I picked up my dress two days after I brought it to her, all the way over in Lake City. This is a rather impressive turn around considering the amount of fixing that ended up having to be done. (She had to bring it in two inches at the top and up six at the bottom, which involved cutting and reshaping the fabric, if you're interested.) I headed to the front door after trying it on, and as I reached for the doorknob I turned around to thank her again as she said, "Have a good time at the wedding."
"Thanks, I will."
"Maybe you'll be next."
I suppose my eyebrows must have raised at this, my eyes widened a bit. I'm pretty phobic about marriage. She clapped her hands to her mouth and said "I mean, I don't know if you're already married."
"Nope, not married." I looked down at my hands as though to make sure there was no ring anywhere unexpected.
"That's just how we say goodbye in my country: wishing for the marriage. Then, when you do, we're wishing for the first boy."
I wasn't sure how to respond. Far be it for me to step on anyone's cultural ways. I shrugged, waved my hands, and said, "Oh, I see. Well, uh, maybe I will be next."
There was a little bit of unreasonable paranoia there, an image that flashed in my head of Sarah and this woman conspiring to throw the bouquet right at me.

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