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Writing fiction is an interesting thing. You build people and places, much like you did in your childhood, only there are no dolls, or trademarked interlocking plastic pieces, or squishy beige lumps of androgynous putty. The clay is all in your head; your imagination is now the squishy, puzzle-y, malleable thing creating worlds and characters. And, of course, a multitude of viewpoints that don’t always mesh with your own is the underlying meat that adds dimension to all that stuff.

With all of the above said, I —Ms. Shack Until She Dies/Don’t Say the “M” Word— is planning her first (fictional) wedding. Suddenly, I find myself sifting through customs and clothing and traditions. All the things that, short of occasionally attending an actual wedding between people I care for over the course of a lifetime, I have traditionally run screaming from.

And while I am by no means amending the section of my personal  adult(ish) mission statement regarding the topic, I have to admit the following:

A) It is not killing me nearly as much as I thought it would.
B) I might just possibly, kinda, sorta be having fun.

…Please, whatever you do, just don’t tell me this makes me a grown-up.

I don’t want to be one.