Dozen.

I just thought of a better, if more black, title for this post:  "Still Crazy After All These Years."  It is true in so many ways.  Today is our 12th wedding anniversary.

Twelve years ago, Toby and I were both nineteen.  Our families viewed the match with some skepticism, but we plowed ahead.  The day I was married, Dad, Laural, and I drove to Joplin, ate fried chicken, and visited a rural park to see "the meaning of life."  (Ask me sometime when I'm sure you're not the type to judge....it was hilariously tacky graffiti.)  Later I took a bath, painted my toenails sparkly white-gold, and got dressed.  It all seemed unreal, that the date I had been anticipating for so many months was here.

There's a fine line to walk when you get married young.  You want to do things your way, but are constantly aware that you're already causing enough fuss by tying the knot in the first place.  I wanted to wear white Chuck Taylors, and possibly make Toby chase me around the church for the kiss.  My mortified mother talked me out of it.   I didn't want people to look at me, so I made my veil of a near-impenetrable thickness, and nearly smothered.

What else do I remember?  I remember cracking nervous jokes with Dad and a then-nine Emma in the bell-foyer at the church.  I remember a story the officiator told us about bamboo and its growing cycle and how it relates to marriage.    I remember my very-conservative friend making a lewd remark about the honeymoon in a smirking whisper.

We've spent the last twelve years proving that an optimist and a pessimist can coexist, if not always peacefully.  We've added five kinda neat people to the world.  We've tried and succeeded.  We've also tried and failed, and learned the hard way.  I've said a great many things that I regret, but I've never regretted "I do."

Check out Toby.  He looks like, five.  But in a hot way.