There’s been a lot of concern over my well being during the wedding—not from my own date, mind you (he is, after all, the one who served me hot pockets and left me to carry my own suitcase when I went to visit him in Pittsburgh this past summer) but from his mother and his youngest brother.
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His brother was the one who first warned me that the ceremony would be outside and advised me to wear a wrap. Now, both he and his mother are concerned about me wearing heels.
“It’s muddy,” his mother informs me.
“There’s a hill,” his brother echoes.
Being the wedding junkie that I am, I’ve already examined the entire Tyler Arboretum website (just as I’ve already examined the entire website of the estate where I’ll be attending a wedding in Ireland this summer) and nowhere did it say anything about a hill. Or mud.
I thank Date #7’s mother and brother for their concern but assure them I’ll be fine. After all, Date #7 has told them very little about me so they have no idea that I’ve backpacked through Europe or that I’ve been dancing in heels since I was nine years old. They have no idea that I’m an advanced serial dater, and that high heels are basically like a second skin to me.
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I’m pretty sure I can handle whatever Tyler Arboretum has to offer—very sure, actually— and seeing as I’ve already been deprived of the opportunity to wear one of my Jomar’s bargain basement gowns, there’s no way I’m downgrading my footwear as well.
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