Dave and I met our minister for the wedding on Tuesday night, and we both really liked her. She’s very warm and funny, and we felt very comfortable with her. She has a lot of different options for customizing our ceremony, so we can make it feel like us – and even though Dave and I are probably going to stick with the mostly-traditional vows, I like the idea that we have options. In any case, the ceremony won’t be too preachy – a few spiritual/higher power references, but no sermons about accepting Jesus or anything like that. (For any of you who care, I do consider myself a Christian, but I also don’t consider that to be something that I need to broadcast to the entire world.) She gave us homework – Dave and I have to write a “mission statement” for our marriage, which should prove to be interesting.

Then last night, I went to meet with our photographer – it was Dave’s only night off this week because he has a lot of work stuff going on in the evenings, so I went by myself. [Side note to Sally: I don’t think Dave is allergic to the photographer, but I’m going to keep a close eye on him just in case.] [Side note to Angie: She looks nothing like the pinched-sourpuss Starr on “Project Runway”. She’s got blonde curly hair and a great smile. They couldn’t look more different, for having the same name.] That was fun, I really adore her photos and she thought I was 24, so obviously I love her.

Tonight, after I leave work, I’m going to get a massage. Hooray! I can’t wait. I called at least half a dozen places, trying to find one that could fit me in on this particular evening, because it’s the only free time that I have, since Dave has some dinner meeting thing tonight. The place that could fit me in had only a male massage therapist available. In the past, I’ve never really been comfortable with that idea because I have a truckload (or 3) of body image issues and a petrifying fear of negative judgment from, well, everyone, but men in particular. Right now, though, I am so exhausted from waking up a hundred times every night with my back aching that I just don’t care. If some man who I’ve never met before (and who I may never see again) realizes that I’m flat-chested and that I have cellulite on my thighs, big freakin’ whoop. It’s not the end of the world. Because guess what? There’s a fantastic guy out there who loves my pancake boobies and my jiggle butt, and he’s marrying me in 17 days. So there, body image issues. Nyah.