We designed them. We dug through all the papers and bought the ones that looked best. We laid everything out, we printed them, we cut them. We stamped them with pretty blue flower stamps. We addressed the return envelopes. We addressed the envelopes. We put stamps on everything. We stuffed them all with everything – the invite, the card with info about the reception, hotels, and a map, and the response card with envelope. Then we sealed them shut. Last of all, we put a pretty gold sticker on the back, because we didn’t trust the glue to hold, and dammit, we worked too hard on these things to have them come all afluttering apart in the mail.
Then we walked them to the post office and dropped them off.
Wedding invitations, done.
We were up visiting my parents today, and I was talking to my mom, over fresh homemade rhubarb muffins, about how we didn’t really trust the glue and had to get the pretty gold stickers to make sure the envelopes stayed shut.
“You be careful,” she said, “remember what happened to George!”
It was George Costanza’s wife-to-be, Susan, to whom things happened, of course. I assured my mom that we used a sponge to wet the envelopes and didn’t lick them,
didn’t poison ourselves, and didn’t die. Thank god for Seinfeld, hey? Could’ve been a close call!