Just like a sappy Shania song...

Today marks the thirty-fourth anniversary of the day I willingly – and cluelessly – sashayed up the church aisle and plighted my troth to Dickie Haney.

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The first time I ever gazed into the shockingly blue eyes of my future husband, I was 11 years old. He was 13, spending his summer working the concession stand at the pony league ballpark. I was hanging out with my uber cool and beautious cousin Tanya, who introduced me to Dickie. I remember stupidly asking him if his eyes were really THAT blue, or if he wore contacts. In true Dickman fashion, he leaned out from the concession stand to push his face closer to mine and said, “What do you think?”.

What I thought was that I was suddenly having trouble breathing, you blue-eyed bad boy. That’s what I thought.

(It took me years to notice Dickie's big ol' zit in this picture.)

When I was 14, we ran into each other again at Bulldog Stadium during a summer track meet . He was decked out in a pair of dangerously brief running shorts, and was still sporting those ridiculously blue eyes. I had on a Mickey Mouse tee shirt, and was now sporting some pretty decent ta-tas. He took one look at Mickey’s ears and made a beeline for me. Charmed, I was.

A friendship began to blossom via my pretty pink princess phone. Knowing I wasn’t allowed to date, he settled for asking me to sit with him at church. As nonchalantly as possible, we met in the middle of an uncomfortable pew and sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes straight ahead. I crossed my arms, he crossed his, our fingers touched and secretly linked together. My Mom, sitting a few rows behind us, was neither fooled nor amused. She took one look and said to herself, “that boy is gonna be trouble”. Trouble, he was.

One of my earliest memories of our 'courting' takes me back to a day when he and I were sitting on my bedroom floor (with the door WIDE OPEN, Mom!!!) just hanging out and being silly. In between the silliness, he would try to steal kisses and I would make half-hearted attempts to keep him away. All of a sudden I began to flail my arms in the air - like Will Robinson’s robot on Lost in Space - shouting “Danger! Warning!” over and over. Dickie’s eyes popped out of his face in panic and he jumped away from me as if I had shot him with a taser. I quickly dropped my flailing arms and asked him what was wrong.

“Shhhh! You can’t say that…you’re gonna get me killed!” he told me.

“Say what?!” I asked.

“Dang you're horny!...you can’t say that to me with your Mom right outside the door!”

I was never able to watch Will Robinson and his robot again without giggling.

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In spite of such humble beginnings, still I found myself excitedly tugging my hesitant Daddy up the church aisle towards the Dickman.

In spite of the fact that my Daddy had spent the previous evening monitoring his police scanner for updates on the colorful bachelor party Jackie hosted for his baby brother, up the aisle I did walk.

In spite of the fact that my groom was sporting a bright red sunburn because his future father-in-law had kept his hungover a$$ out on the golf course all day...dispensing hours of marital advice while wielding a 9 iron…I virtually floated up that aisle.

Right up the aisle I headed, straight into the tacky blue-tuxedoed arms of my Best Friend. And with endless rivers of Big Lash Very Black Mascara streaming down my face, with a voice all whispery and trembling, I spoke words of love and promise to that blue-eyed sunburned man of mine.

At the ripe old, un-cynical age of 20, I took my wedding vows at face value.


Three decades later…those promises take on an entirely different meaning:

WHAT I PROMISED: I, Robin, take you Dickman...
WHAT IT MEANT: Thereby giving up all hope of ever hooking up with Robert Redford.

WHAT I PROMISED: To be my LAWFULLY wedded husband.
WHAT IT MEANT: Some days, I will need to drop the ‘L’.

WHAT I PROMISED: To have and to hold…
WHAT IT MEANT: Even when my boobs were leaking, or my ratty ol' t-shirt was covered with baby boy spit-up and/or popcorn grease.

WHAT I PROMISED: From this day forward…
WHAT IT MEANT: No refunds. No returns. No going back.

WHAT I PROMISED: For better, for worse...
WHAT IT MEANT: Drudging through endless hours of folding tube socks and cleaning toilet seats before finally embracing the bitter truth: I will never be Martha freaking Stewart.

WHAT I PROMISED: For richer or poorer…
WHAT IT MEANT: Days of having to choose between buying him a new 8-track Crystal Gayle tape or buying me my favorite breakfast cereal. Choices that made my brown eyes blue.

WHAT I PROMISED: In sickness and in health…
WHAT IT MEANT: Chronic sinus inflammation and insomnia from sleeping with a cover hog. A cover hog who measures 5.0 on the Richter scale of snoring.

WHAT I PROMISED: To love and to cherish…
WHAT IT MEANT: Even when romance becomes reduced to “Hurry, I think we have time!” as he swipes all the clutter off the bed.

WHAT I PROMISED: Til death us do part.
WHAT IT MEANT: Preferably due to natural causes. Preferably on the very same day.

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Seems I’ve loved you forever, Dickie Haney. And in the words of your beloved Shania Twain:

You're still the one I run to
The one that I belong to
You're still the one I want for life
You're still the one that I love
The only one I dream of
You're still the one I kiss good night

You’re still the one.