The Way to a Man's Heart is Through His Stomach

I brought the wedding invitation into a local frame shop thinking it would make a good gift. I’m not in the mood to shop for mixing bowls and spatulas; they don’t seem personal. And, quite honestly, if the happy couple ever does split I don’t want my gift to go with her. And there isn’t a cool kitchen item I could buy that she wouldn’t pack up and claim as her own. And then she might use it to cook for the next guy and warp his mind just like she did my brother's and the cycle would continue, in part, because of my generosity. I can’t have the misfortune of some innocent sap on my hands. The framed invitation seems thoughtful and I know she won’t ever be able to use it to woo another. It’s perfect.

The woman behind the counter in the frame shop was well-groomed and dressed in classic, tailored clothes. She had short grey hair and tasteful makeup. I set the invitation on the counter, we talked about a price range, chose a frame, and then matting. She pulled out something in pool and asked me if I wanted to use it. I told her that I wasn’t so into it, but that everything in the wedding is that color, including my dress, and that it would probably be a good idea. She laughed quietly and whispered, “It’s so dated.” She’s right. My dress is going to look like a powder blue tux in a decade or two. But pool matting it is. It will have to be ordered, because she doesn’t keep any of it on hand, I’m sure because almost no one wants it, but it will still be done in time for the wedding.