Don't get me wrong -- I couldn't be happier about marrying my fiance. He is wonderful and smart and charming, and we've been together since the dawn of man, so we're not rushing anything.

But I just mailed out the invitations to my wedding. My W.E.D.D.I.N.G.

No matter how many times you fantasize about that day, how many details you giddily plan, how many hours you spend talking to your mom or buddies on the phone about it, actually sticking that delicately addressed, overpriced envelope in the mailbox is ... well ... scary.

It's marriage and then a ten-year reunion and then mortgages and your friends are having babies and then you're having babies and they're all screaming at once, and then all of a sudden you're like 87 sitting there having in-depth conversations about your obscure medical ailments to anyone who will listen. And that's if you're lucky.

It's both exciting and terrifying, and I think that's the way it's supposed to be.

"Frank and Sherrie Timmins request the pleasure of your company at the marriage of their daughter ...," It read. Sounds easy enough, right? No big deal?

But it was a big deal. That's it, people. This is happening. Game on.

Me: 1, Metal mailbox: 0