the number of digits on a hand.
the cost of a Subway foot-long sandwich (yea advertising!).
the number of workdays in a week.
the time (in days) until I'm in Chicago.
the number of years B and I have been dating.
the number of priests that have turned us down.
B and I decided this weekend to stop pursuing Atlanta priests from his home parish and instead go with the Abbot in charge of the church in Florence. It seemed easier to us that, if the people we were close to weren't available and the people we weren't close to seemed hesitant to travel, picking the Florence priest was a win-win and a no-brainer.
B called him this afternoon to check his availability, which we'd so flippantly assumed would be wide-open ("We have his church! What's he going to do?"). Retire, that's what. Like my fifth grade piano teacher after only one year, Abbot V is checking out on us (ok, ok, and his local parish) after who knows how many years just before our wedding. Apparently a kind fellow from Lucerne, which, far as I can tell, is either an early 90s Buick or a city in Switzerland, will be taking over and Abbot V is calling him to see if he'd be willing to marry us. Seriously?
Good thing I have this thick protestant skin or my feelings would be pretty hurt right now.
Retiring. That begs one question... why does he care when the wedding is? Sign us up for 4pm, stat!