I stressed for weeks -- OK, months -- about my fiance going to Las Vegas for his bachelor party. Four nights with four other guys in Sin City sounded like trouble.

I have read the horror stories and seen the TV shows with men licking whipped cream off strange women, and commercials telling visitors "What happens here, stays here."

It didn't help that my female supporters weren't exactly understanding. When I told them Jack was going to Vegas, most of my friends expressed shock. The sympathetic, "It will be fine," comments didn't help much after hearing "He's going where?!"

While I know Jack well and really do trust him, somehow the constant message that it's his "last chance" was making me a little crazy -- unfortunately for Jack.

As far as he was concerned, the weekend away could have been anywhere. He just wanted to spend some quality time -- if that can be had in a strip club -- with his closest friends. He grew up with his four travel partners, and their busy lives and geography prevent them from seeing each other often.

But I haven't met two of the guys and didn't know what to expect from them. Unfair, I know, but when I'm being irrational it's not about being fair.

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Jack assured me that everyone was harmless and just wanted to have some fun without harming our future. I believed him, but I still needed to grasp that concept in my own way.

So the process of talking myself down began.

Part of me realized it could have been worse. Initially there was talk among Jack's friends about going to Amsterdam, Netherlands. Considering he would be in a U.S. city with U.S. laws, Vegas didn't seem too bad in comparison.

Another part of me realized that I wasn't helping anyone by obsessing over the unknown. Even Jack didn't know what was in store for his trip, so it's not like he could help me out.

I'm not like the women I have heard of who don't mind what happens at bachelor parties because after that night, the guest of honor is hers forever. But with Jack, I really didn't have to worry about cheating. He made it clear he would never risk our relationship for a cheap thrill.

As the day for him to leave approached, the only way I could feel normal was to join in the fun. If he was going to party for four nights, I might as well have a local party of my own.

Some, including my fiance, thought that idea was ridiculous -- that I was just being immature and competitive. But I'm better off keeping busy and social than waiting around for my partying fiance to call.

As I drove Jack to the airport, I wasn't worried about what he was going to do; I focused on how much fun I was going to have with my friends.

I made plans with different friends for three of the four nights, hoping that I would be less obsessed with what Jack was (or wasn't) doing miles away. I even threw a strip club in there for good measure.

I admit keeping myself entertained didn't stop me from thinking about him, and often wondering where he was. Mainly, I missed having him home to greet me.

As the days passed, Jack called me once a day, retelling some of the events from the previous night -- at least the ones he could remember. I quickly found that my irrational thoughts were just that.

Sure, he went to a few topless bars and drank way too much, but no women dressed in whipped cream ever made it to his hotel room.

Of course, he probably left out some details. But all in all, I know my fears were unfounded. I feel bad I put him through my anxiety, but it doesn't seem to hold him back.

Now he's talking about his next bachelor party -- one night at local clubs that would include people who couldn't do Vegas, most importantly my dad and brothers.

I'm not too worried about the dreaded bachelor party anymore. I have learned that it's a lot more exciting in theory.

Now, for my bachelorette party in a few weeks, that may be a different story.

Laura Lewis is an adventurous 20-something who has loved, lost and doesn't mind sharing. Her column appears every other Thursday.