I have no time to read, I forget to eat, I can barely sleep. I haven't been fired . . . yet.

As if compensating for every carefree afternoon that I spent reenacting episodes of Buck Rogers and Battlestar Galactica, reading the Chronicles of Narnia and Harriet the Spy, playing Super Breakout on my neighbor's Atari—as if I'm paying now for every moment of my girlhood that I didn't spend fantasizing about minute details of My Big Day™—all I think about now is wedding planning.

Do you know the appropriate sentiments to convey to the newly-engaged couple? I do. Congratulate the groom ("Dude, you found someone to put up with you"), but give the lovely bride your "best wishes" ("good luck, honey, you're gonna need it").

Are you familiar with awkward terms like "civil celebrant" and "officiant"? (Hint: The former is a heathen subset of the latter.) I am. Uncomfortably so. I cannot utter them with a straight face. Rarely can I even bring myself to say "fiance"—when "boyfriend" isn't enough, I refer to my betrothed as the "future ball-and-chain."

Whenever I start to feel burned out on weddings, I just turn my thoughts to moving. Sunday we took some things to Our First Self-Storage Unit™. Aren't we good patriotic Americans, accumulating more material possessions than will fit into our home—even if said home is only 600 square feet? (Shame on us! We should be going into debt for a McMansion!)