Everyone told us not to do it. Everyone said it was a bad idea. Too young. Too exclusive. Our parents played it straight, hoping we would split up on our own. Our friends waited on us, knowing it wouldn't last. But, when God shows you "The One" there is only one viable course of action.
Thirty-eight years ago, today, the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and I had our first "date." I was 15. The comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda was [number deleted to prevent unkind calculations]. We started our sophomore year in high school the next week.
By the end of our first month of "dating" it was becoming clear that there was a special chemistry between us. We fought about something every day. It was miserably fun.
For some reason--probably because everyone was rooting against us--we began to keep track of the number of months that had elapsed since our first date. We celebrated the 21st of every month as Our Day. In those halcyon hair-centric high school days, I spent countless hours maintaining my fine blond head-bone covering. My most important possession was a black, plastic comb. We began to mark the 21st of every month with a solemn ceremony during which I carved a small notch in the spine of my comb with my pocket knife (this was in the days when carrying a knife to school was not only condoned, but required).
Two years out of high school, and two years into my matriculation at the "Harvard of the South" (so-named as part of little-known reciprocal agreement whereby Harvard is allowed to refer to itself as the "Ole Miss of the North") the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda and I wed--21 days shy of the five year anniversary of our first date.
Besides the comely and kind-hearted Miss Brenda, there will be a handful of readers of this post, wasting valuable rod and cone time, who were along on that "first date" and who may take umbrage at the fact that I can gleefully tell you that you were wrong about my best friend and me. We made it.
Still making it.