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This past weekend, the beau and I went to a flower shop for the first time to start talking wedding flowers.

The business is in a tiny house on a tiny side street in my parents’ tiny town. It was, in short, adorable. The owner was super easy to work with and more than happy to fill-in-the-blanks with my utterly lacking floral knowledge. (I walked in with the following directives: “I like daisies.” “I like purple.” Clearly, a woman with a vision.)

As Jeff and I sat on a little wicker love seat and flipped through binders of flower photos, a man behind us said, “Run while you still can.”

We turned around, and there was a 40-something fellow and, presumably, his son. I kind of grinned — because what do you do or say to that? — and Jeff’s face mirrored my own “I’m smiling because this is incredibly awkward” sort of expression.

But then Jeff proved, yet again, why he rocks.

“No way,” he told the douche. “It took me this long to find her. I’m not letting her go.”

The guy nodded, smiled and repeated with an I-know-more-than-you-do air, “Run while you can.”

At this point, the florist came from the back where she was fetching something, overheard the directive and said to the boy, “You be sure you tell your mother he said that!”

I tell ya, if that man is still married to his son’s mother, I will play this song on repeat for the entirety of my wedding, including when I walk down the aisle.

Oppa.

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