I arrived at dearest brides wedding rehearsal at her parents house in Mission.
The house was gorgeous, with a cozy british cottage feel to it, except about 8 times larger than any cottage. I was greeted at the door by bride’s mother; she did not smile, but instead gave me the one over behind her Vera Wang spectacles. This didn’t bother me; I expected it actually, as the bride’s parents are always very curious and sceptical of the wedding planner. This is due to the sort of relationship we have, that relationship being you, mother, pay for the wedding, and I, wedding planner, will make it all happen.
I graciously introduced myself, and immediately proceeded to look around the house like a girls who’s got business to do, as I took of my sunglasses, threw them in my purse, and assessed the situation like I was friggin Nancy Drew or something.
She stepped to the side, and asked if she could get me something to drink. I politely asked for a Perrier, and continued to make my way past the caterer to the back yard. Now now, don’t judge me here, you see, I am this woman they talk about every Sunday over brunch, the woman they entrust the biggest day of her little darlings life with. I got the initial MOB (Mother of the bride) one over, and I had to look every bit as confident and self assured as they needed me to be.
What was really happening here, is I was putting her mind at ease, and helping her justify the breath taking, even for folks like this, wedding bill. The back yard looked exactly like this wedding I was drooling over last weekend in the summer edition of Grace Ormonde. The perfectly manicured lawns, tulips, lilac trees, a tree house for the kids, and a dinner setting so stunning that I almost forgot where I was. This was only the rehearsal and in 2 days I, myself, alone, am going to be creating the actual wedding that was supposed to put this little backyard ‘practice’ party to shame. A few family members stood around in designer sweater vests, sipping wine, seemingly so accustomed to such an event. I kept a relaxed ‘this is just what I do’ stature as I was introduced to the father of the bride, (insert same one over as the MOB), the mother of the groom, a tiny and just as intimidated looking Asian woman that put my nerves at ease. She was lovely; I made a mental note to make time to chat with her. I chatted with the parents while we waited for the bridal party to arrive.
Naturally, we chatted about their second condo in Bankview, and their recent travels though Paris, Greece, Italy and London. I studied their faces in an attempt to match their nonchalant composure about the whole topic. I copied her one eyebrow raise as she went on to discuss the journeys of her outstandingly successful children. I mentioned London, and how I grew up there. She lit up and told me that her eldest was a professor at the University of Oxford. In a moments time I shut out the real story about growing up in the slums and escaping my alcoholic mother, and continued to discuss my ritzy and every so privileged upbringing in upscale London. I shook off memories of sifting though discount bins at the scruf market, as I proceeded to discuss the quality of education in London.
As the bridal party entered, a wave of relief fell over me, I have never been so happy to see dearest bride, and as she strutted in followed by her loyal band of attendants, I smiled my first real smile of the evening. The parents observed their precious admiringly, the photographer scattering to capture her entrance, and her husband to be looking at the ground behind her, completely acknowledging, that this is indeed, all about her.
She passed her parents, her photographer, and about 40 other people that I was still in the process of trying to remember..she was saying things like ‘excuse me’, and ‘thank you, just a moment’. Everyone stared at her waiting for her words, for something. She marched right up to me, despite my attempt to hide in the background, and she said “There’s one person I have to say thank you to right now” and she gave me the biggest, most endearing hug. She turned around to face her fans, who were all now clapping, shooting pictures of us, her father skipping towards us with 2 glasses of wine.
After endless nights of sifting through samples, negotiating with vendors, ordering flowers, food, discussing music, and about 64 meetings, most of which I arrived frazzled, late, and surprisingly dis-organized for a wedding planner..I felt relief, I felt appreciated. And while I looked at dearest bride and the glow on her face as she praised my work, I remembered at that moment for the first time in months, why I do what I do.
When it came time to start the rehearsal, I looked around at the scattered bunch, all immersed in conversation, and really enjoying generous helpings of wine. Dearest bride came up to me with a nudge and wink, suggesting I get things started before the generous helpings continue. I remembered when I was apprenticing with another wedding planner, the one lesson she has about rehearsals. “Louise, you’re too quiet, speak up!”.
I managed to round up a pretend processional line up, after about 15 minutes of running after kids, dogs, and a very excited and energetic bridal party. All the while, might I add, while the groom stood at the pretend alter, and the bride and her father waiting to walk down the pretend aisle. The bride and groom where sharing nervous smiles and giggles from opposite ends of the mayhem that was the rehearsal I was attempting to manage. Amongst the madness that I was barley ‘coordinating’, dearest bride looked at me and smiled confidently, which told me “I know you can do this”. I smiled my second real smile of the evening.
After rounding the crazy bunch up like a sheep dog, I managed to coordinate a successful practice wedding ceremony. This was followed by an amazing catered dinner that left us all silent and so so happy. I sat there chatting and laughing with the bridesmaids, the parents, and playing with the kids. I laughed at myself for being so intimidated a few hours ago, and took a moment to be truly thankful to be here, to work with these wonderful people.
I walked out of there smiling, and remembering my years of dreaming of this moment, the relief that comes with saying “I’m a wedding planner; I made my dreams come true. I did it”.
Tomorrow is the wedding and it will be every bit as outstanding and elegant as she had always dreamed it would be.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Its a charmed life...
She looked at me with sympathetic yet stern eyes, after every so graciously rejecting my request to lower my rent. Why...you ask would I make such a request?
Well, because in 1 week we will have another roommate. A male roommate.
The house is a newly renovated and gorgeous character home in the middle of Marda Loop, which was the place to be in the 70's if you were an artist, hippie, actor, any sort of young expressionist with a revolutionary statement to make in Calgary, Marda Loop was your home. These days, Marda Loop is now known as the stomping ground for beautiful and privileged, bank of mom and dad students.
It’s a charmed life for these youngsters, that somewhere along the way took over for movers and shakers that roamed the area decades before.
So, these 2 lovely girls have given me a room in their home to rent, almost like a sunroom in the back yard. The room is very bright, and very, red. It has no closet. My clothes are actually hanging from the curtian rods. There are shoes in my coffee table, and towels in my bookcase, that also houses the leaning tower of wedding magazines. There are currently 3 of us living in the home, soon to be 4, as her boyfriend is moving into the home. So, upon news of the newest arrival in the home, I request that my rent be reduced. Fair request, non? Apparently not actually. I smiled politely as she explained to me the hardships and challenges that come with having a mortgage, owning a home, paying the bills. This most privileged and charmed university student, was explaining to me about financial difficultly. I had flashbacks of my first apartment, eating Mr.Noodle on my half inflated air mattress, watching the free cable on the Zellers brand 13” Tv I got when I was 13. That was 6 years ago. One more roommate….and no perks in it for me, who is already suffering with being jammed into the red sunroom like an effin sardine.
I’m 26; I’m too old for this. I was finally having that long anticipated epiphany that every one older than me had warned me about, where the roommates thing, just won’t cut it anymore, and where you decide that instead of contributing to their every so shiny and colorful lives..perhaps its time to create my own. Apartment hunting. Day 1. Stay tuned…
Well, because in 1 week we will have another roommate. A male roommate.
The house is a newly renovated and gorgeous character home in the middle of Marda Loop, which was the place to be in the 70's if you were an artist, hippie, actor, any sort of young expressionist with a revolutionary statement to make in Calgary, Marda Loop was your home. These days, Marda Loop is now known as the stomping ground for beautiful and privileged, bank of mom and dad students.
It’s a charmed life for these youngsters, that somewhere along the way took over for movers and shakers that roamed the area decades before.
So, these 2 lovely girls have given me a room in their home to rent, almost like a sunroom in the back yard. The room is very bright, and very, red. It has no closet. My clothes are actually hanging from the curtian rods. There are shoes in my coffee table, and towels in my bookcase, that also houses the leaning tower of wedding magazines. There are currently 3 of us living in the home, soon to be 4, as her boyfriend is moving into the home. So, upon news of the newest arrival in the home, I request that my rent be reduced. Fair request, non? Apparently not actually. I smiled politely as she explained to me the hardships and challenges that come with having a mortgage, owning a home, paying the bills. This most privileged and charmed university student, was explaining to me about financial difficultly. I had flashbacks of my first apartment, eating Mr.Noodle on my half inflated air mattress, watching the free cable on the Zellers brand 13” Tv I got when I was 13. That was 6 years ago. One more roommate….and no perks in it for me, who is already suffering with being jammed into the red sunroom like an effin sardine.
I’m 26; I’m too old for this. I was finally having that long anticipated epiphany that every one older than me had warned me about, where the roommates thing, just won’t cut it anymore, and where you decide that instead of contributing to their every so shiny and colorful lives..perhaps its time to create my own. Apartment hunting. Day 1. Stay tuned…
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Screw you, cancer.
I'm standing there at the start line at Calgary’s Relay for Life, watching a sea of yellow cancer survivors, old, young, men, women...all with a similar look of ‘I actually made it’ in their eyes.
They kicked off the event giving all of us onlooker’s inspiration and hope.
I was called to the start line with my golf cart to drive one of the survivors around the lap. When I arrived the lady was holding on to a man for support (literally, physically holding on to stand up), and the man was looking around wondering where this golf cart is. I went up to her and said “Hello, I’m here to drive you around the survivors lap”. She must have been at least 85-90. The man was beckoning her to get in the golf cart, she didn’t move. People standing around just looked at each other, silent and confused. She looked up at me with tear filled eyes and said “No, I’ll walk”. And off she went, shaky, wobbly, and determined as ever.
I thought for a minute about what this lady must have been through in her life, what her battle with cancer must have been like, the treatments, the sickness.
I thought about these glowing and happy people, and their fights with cancer... to have more days, to have back the health that they will never take for granted again. A wave of guilt fell over me, guilt for not appreciating every moment, for all the complaining about ridiculous things.
One was a grandpa doing the survivors lap with 2 little girls, each holding on to one hand, looking up at him proudly. One was a young girl that couldn’t have been older than 20. She could have been the poster child for ‘healthy’; it was stunning to me that this glowing and energetic young girl had fought off this monster of a disease. Their energy and strength lit up the field. I must have clapped for about...15 minutes..that’s a long time to be just be..clapping. Actually, mesmerized by the sea of yellow, I didn’t even realize I was clapping, then my hands turned numb. This is how we celebrate people, we clap.
We stood there and clapped, as to say ‘good job for being alive’.
They kicked off the event giving all of us onlooker’s inspiration and hope.
I was called to the start line with my golf cart to drive one of the survivors around the lap. When I arrived the lady was holding on to a man for support (literally, physically holding on to stand up), and the man was looking around wondering where this golf cart is. I went up to her and said “Hello, I’m here to drive you around the survivors lap”. She must have been at least 85-90. The man was beckoning her to get in the golf cart, she didn’t move. People standing around just looked at each other, silent and confused. She looked up at me with tear filled eyes and said “No, I’ll walk”. And off she went, shaky, wobbly, and determined as ever.
I thought for a minute about what this lady must have been through in her life, what her battle with cancer must have been like, the treatments, the sickness.
I thought about these glowing and happy people, and their fights with cancer... to have more days, to have back the health that they will never take for granted again. A wave of guilt fell over me, guilt for not appreciating every moment, for all the complaining about ridiculous things.
One was a grandpa doing the survivors lap with 2 little girls, each holding on to one hand, looking up at him proudly. One was a young girl that couldn’t have been older than 20. She could have been the poster child for ‘healthy’; it was stunning to me that this glowing and energetic young girl had fought off this monster of a disease. Their energy and strength lit up the field. I must have clapped for about...15 minutes..that’s a long time to be just be..clapping. Actually, mesmerized by the sea of yellow, I didn’t even realize I was clapping, then my hands turned numb. This is how we celebrate people, we clap.
We stood there and clapped, as to say ‘good job for being alive’.
Photos by Image Wave Photography
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
What's running my life?
I stood there at the finish line at the Calgary HSBC Marathon, watching the sweat drip off their bodies, the passion and intensity in their eyes, and hearing the roar of proud and inspired onlookers.
Then I got a call from W saying he’s been done for half an hour. How is it that these 30 something thousand people got up at 5am, to run 20-40kms, and I can’t make it to the finish line in time, at 10am, on a Sunday, in my car, after sipping coffee and chatting with my roomies for a good hour. I apologized to W for being late, and he put his hands out in a ‘wowha’ sort of manner and said “We’ve only been together for 1 month”..then he raised his eyebrows in a manner than suggested I was being ridiculous for caring so much. (Refer to posting about my gorgeous eyes..yep) But it wasn’t even about him, I was angry with myself for not being as good as all these runners, for not having the passion and drive. I’m supposed to be a passionate person!? I wanted to have that passion and drive that I saw in everyone approaching that finish line. I want that.
When I heard about Betty’s 5 mile run for ALS, I signed up immediately, it’s a good cause, it’s in 2 weeks. I’m a professional fundraiser, and now, an aspiring runner.
It’s perfect, I will run 5 miles.
So, the following week, I go for a slow jog once around the field outside my house, my throat hurt, my foot cramped up, and the 5 minute run left me thinking these marathon runners had super powers. I wanted that.
Next run 2 days later, I choose a dog park. Um, now I don’t know what the etiquette around dog parks and runners are, but the dogs kept chasing me, and the owners were snarling at me for distracting the dogs. ‘Excuse me’ I thought in my head, as I fought of the pain from head to toe, and gasped for air. But I didn’t care. I was running. It was a hot sunny day, and I was running. It has been about 20 minutes and I was still going strong. Me...strong..about 38 dogs..and disgruntled owners to boot. I felt great, I can totally do this. Then I go to wipe my nose, thinking it’s just a bit of, runners snot or something, and my hand is covered in blood. By the time I stop running, about 0.4 seconds after discovering all the blood, a second smammering of blood has already managed to coat my white tank top. That’s lovely. I’m catching my breath, uncomfortably far from my home, tasting the mix of sweat and blood, and quickly drawing a rather concerned looking audience of dogs and owners, as I stared at my pathetic looking self, wondering whose ideas this running thing was anyway.
I walked home, defeated, bloody, and fighting back tears of discomfort and humiliation.
That was the beginning of a 2 week journey that included a strict schedule of running every other night, a little bit longer every night. (On running paths, with water, and dark clothing). 2kms, 4kms, 4km, 3.5km, 4km, 6km, 8km. This pattern of runs including my routes was recorded after every run on www.mapmyrun.com. With each run, I felt more liberated, stronger, and closer to being one of those people I so envied at the finish line that day.
Over this 2 weeks, I felt W slipping further away, with every new run, the e-mails got shorter, the phone calls quieter, the planning of experiencing new things coming to a complete halt. This was all confirmed 3 days before the big run.
My sister and I arrived at Betty’s run that morning, I was nervous and excited. As soon as I got there W caught my eye and smiled at me. I couldn’t avoid this, that would just be rude, I convinced myself, despite V’s claim that I never do well in these situations. I’m a strong independent woman. And we smile and do introductions, but I can’t just leave it at that, I start rambling, talking to people who were not even talking to me, and run away just like I would in grade 7 after telling Max I had a crush on him. Turns out V had a point. I certainly have perfected the art of making an awkward situation that much worse.
As I stood at the start line I wanted nothing more than for him to hug me and tell me I was amazing, and that I could do anything. The countdown started...6...5...4....panic sets in as I desperately looked for him in the mass of ridiculously experienced looking runners. But instead, I put my head down, put my headphones in, as my sister and I looked at each other with polite smiles, and complete fear...we just started running.
The first km was liberating and scary, the second km was more focusing on breathing, drinking some water. As we approach 3, V asks me why people are going backwards. It turns out they are actually 6 kms head of us in the race. They looked exactly like the runners at the finish line at the marathon 2 weeks ago, passionate, intense, hot...I was so happy to be in the same race as these impressive and determined people. I was really proud of myself..before I realized I still wasn’t even at 3km, and I shouldn’t get excited yet.
We passed 3 , and went down a very steep hill, which was lovely until we realized that the last 4kms are only the first 4, except backwards.
After gaily jogging down this lovely and large hill, we looked at each other with sheer panic and fear at the idea of having to run back up it. Runners were coming up the hill, they looked red, thirsty, scrunched up and painful to even look at faces.
I looked away, legs shaky, sweat bouncing off my forehead, I kept my head down, exchanged a few jokes about the intense runners with V, which gave us a bit more energy to continue after the horror of seeing that hill. Approaching 4km, we passed W, who gave me that look of encouragement I wanted at the start line, he said “You got this”..I was almost surprised when the sentence was not followed with ‘babe’, as it had in weeks prior.
Despite everything, it still helped, it still made me smile, even if he just dumped me, he still believed in me enough to know that I could finish this race, and I was really in no position to be turning down any such fans. When it came time to go back up the hill, we decided the best idea was to run up it really fast, you know..to get it over with..nope, no, I’m going to vomit. We stopped for about 3 seconds at the water station at the top of the hill, drank like camels, poured the remainder over my head, and kept going. My music turned bubbly, damn it, just poured water into my earphones.
The last 4kms was a painful and zombie like blur that involved deep analytical breakdowns of the lyrics of the music I was listening too.
We saw the finish line and starting running just a little bit faster, of excitement, of exhaustion...we finished in just under 1 hour. I had completed my very first real grown up running charity event. And with V, who stood (or ran) by my side the entire time.
Maybe it’s not relevant how I got here, but it really was a life changing 2 weeks, I love running. I can do anything.
Then I got a call from W saying he’s been done for half an hour. How is it that these 30 something thousand people got up at 5am, to run 20-40kms, and I can’t make it to the finish line in time, at 10am, on a Sunday, in my car, after sipping coffee and chatting with my roomies for a good hour. I apologized to W for being late, and he put his hands out in a ‘wowha’ sort of manner and said “We’ve only been together for 1 month”..then he raised his eyebrows in a manner than suggested I was being ridiculous for caring so much. (Refer to posting about my gorgeous eyes..yep) But it wasn’t even about him, I was angry with myself for not being as good as all these runners, for not having the passion and drive. I’m supposed to be a passionate person!? I wanted to have that passion and drive that I saw in everyone approaching that finish line. I want that.
When I heard about Betty’s 5 mile run for ALS, I signed up immediately, it’s a good cause, it’s in 2 weeks. I’m a professional fundraiser, and now, an aspiring runner.
It’s perfect, I will run 5 miles.
So, the following week, I go for a slow jog once around the field outside my house, my throat hurt, my foot cramped up, and the 5 minute run left me thinking these marathon runners had super powers. I wanted that.
Next run 2 days later, I choose a dog park. Um, now I don’t know what the etiquette around dog parks and runners are, but the dogs kept chasing me, and the owners were snarling at me for distracting the dogs. ‘Excuse me’ I thought in my head, as I fought of the pain from head to toe, and gasped for air. But I didn’t care. I was running. It was a hot sunny day, and I was running. It has been about 20 minutes and I was still going strong. Me...strong..about 38 dogs..and disgruntled owners to boot. I felt great, I can totally do this. Then I go to wipe my nose, thinking it’s just a bit of, runners snot or something, and my hand is covered in blood. By the time I stop running, about 0.4 seconds after discovering all the blood, a second smammering of blood has already managed to coat my white tank top. That’s lovely. I’m catching my breath, uncomfortably far from my home, tasting the mix of sweat and blood, and quickly drawing a rather concerned looking audience of dogs and owners, as I stared at my pathetic looking self, wondering whose ideas this running thing was anyway.
I walked home, defeated, bloody, and fighting back tears of discomfort and humiliation.
That was the beginning of a 2 week journey that included a strict schedule of running every other night, a little bit longer every night. (On running paths, with water, and dark clothing). 2kms, 4kms, 4km, 3.5km, 4km, 6km, 8km. This pattern of runs including my routes was recorded after every run on www.mapmyrun.com. With each run, I felt more liberated, stronger, and closer to being one of those people I so envied at the finish line that day.
Over this 2 weeks, I felt W slipping further away, with every new run, the e-mails got shorter, the phone calls quieter, the planning of experiencing new things coming to a complete halt. This was all confirmed 3 days before the big run.
My sister and I arrived at Betty’s run that morning, I was nervous and excited. As soon as I got there W caught my eye and smiled at me. I couldn’t avoid this, that would just be rude, I convinced myself, despite V’s claim that I never do well in these situations. I’m a strong independent woman. And we smile and do introductions, but I can’t just leave it at that, I start rambling, talking to people who were not even talking to me, and run away just like I would in grade 7 after telling Max I had a crush on him. Turns out V had a point. I certainly have perfected the art of making an awkward situation that much worse.
As I stood at the start line I wanted nothing more than for him to hug me and tell me I was amazing, and that I could do anything. The countdown started...6...5...4....panic sets in as I desperately looked for him in the mass of ridiculously experienced looking runners. But instead, I put my head down, put my headphones in, as my sister and I looked at each other with polite smiles, and complete fear...we just started running.
The first km was liberating and scary, the second km was more focusing on breathing, drinking some water. As we approach 3, V asks me why people are going backwards. It turns out they are actually 6 kms head of us in the race. They looked exactly like the runners at the finish line at the marathon 2 weeks ago, passionate, intense, hot...I was so happy to be in the same race as these impressive and determined people. I was really proud of myself..before I realized I still wasn’t even at 3km, and I shouldn’t get excited yet.
We passed 3 , and went down a very steep hill, which was lovely until we realized that the last 4kms are only the first 4, except backwards.
After gaily jogging down this lovely and large hill, we looked at each other with sheer panic and fear at the idea of having to run back up it. Runners were coming up the hill, they looked red, thirsty, scrunched up and painful to even look at faces.
I looked away, legs shaky, sweat bouncing off my forehead, I kept my head down, exchanged a few jokes about the intense runners with V, which gave us a bit more energy to continue after the horror of seeing that hill. Approaching 4km, we passed W, who gave me that look of encouragement I wanted at the start line, he said “You got this”..I was almost surprised when the sentence was not followed with ‘babe’, as it had in weeks prior.
Despite everything, it still helped, it still made me smile, even if he just dumped me, he still believed in me enough to know that I could finish this race, and I was really in no position to be turning down any such fans. When it came time to go back up the hill, we decided the best idea was to run up it really fast, you know..to get it over with..nope, no, I’m going to vomit. We stopped for about 3 seconds at the water station at the top of the hill, drank like camels, poured the remainder over my head, and kept going. My music turned bubbly, damn it, just poured water into my earphones.
The last 4kms was a painful and zombie like blur that involved deep analytical breakdowns of the lyrics of the music I was listening too.
We saw the finish line and starting running just a little bit faster, of excitement, of exhaustion...we finished in just under 1 hour. I had completed my very first real grown up running charity event. And with V, who stood (or ran) by my side the entire time.
Maybe it’s not relevant how I got here, but it really was a life changing 2 weeks, I love running. I can do anything.
You have the most gorgeous eyes
It was the perfect buffer line, in the most typical and unimaginative break up e-mail. I am pretty sure if you Google “Breakup e-mail” this would be the first result.
A good break up e-mail requires a technique I call buffering (please do not quote me, I really have no idea. I’m just a girl that just got dumped, and I’m venting, so please, don’t take notes). Buffering is the art of placing the “It’s not working” between 2 generic and textbook like lines that usually refer to your eyes, your sparkling personality, etc. It’s that one beautiful little compliment that has a slim chance of distracting you from the feeling of overwhelming defeat and instant loneliness that will soon lead you to drunkenly giving your friends the “You don’t even KNOW” speech.
I recently received the break up buffer e-mail. Remember W, too charming..right. For an artist, I was expecting a bit more creativity, something a bit more out to lunch, something a bit more contemporary. I was not sure if I was more upset to not have him in my life anymore, or to not even be worthy of anything more than the typical buffer e-mail, that actually contained such content as “I like you, I do, it’s just...”, oh and the “I don’t regret anything..”.
Perhaps there are boundaries to all the beauty, creativity, imagination, and overly romantic bs that comes with having only 6 weeks with someone..something so new that it didn’t even have time to go sour. Perhaps when it comes to saying goodbye, it’s all out the door.
Everything is minimized to this one most generic and universal technique....”I think you have the most gorgeous eyes”..and, that’s a wrap.
A good break up e-mail requires a technique I call buffering (please do not quote me, I really have no idea. I’m just a girl that just got dumped, and I’m venting, so please, don’t take notes). Buffering is the art of placing the “It’s not working” between 2 generic and textbook like lines that usually refer to your eyes, your sparkling personality, etc. It’s that one beautiful little compliment that has a slim chance of distracting you from the feeling of overwhelming defeat and instant loneliness that will soon lead you to drunkenly giving your friends the “You don’t even KNOW” speech.
I recently received the break up buffer e-mail. Remember W, too charming..right. For an artist, I was expecting a bit more creativity, something a bit more out to lunch, something a bit more contemporary. I was not sure if I was more upset to not have him in my life anymore, or to not even be worthy of anything more than the typical buffer e-mail, that actually contained such content as “I like you, I do, it’s just...”, oh and the “I don’t regret anything..”.
Perhaps there are boundaries to all the beauty, creativity, imagination, and overly romantic bs that comes with having only 6 weeks with someone..something so new that it didn’t even have time to go sour. Perhaps when it comes to saying goodbye, it’s all out the door.
Everything is minimized to this one most generic and universal technique....”I think you have the most gorgeous eyes”..and, that’s a wrap.
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