Over a decade has passed since Babe and I promised before God and everybody in town to love, honor and disobey. I think about this as we drive to Woodlands Resort & Inn in Summerville, South Carolina to celebrate our anniversary.

According to the five-color brochure, a nostalgic breeze will drift over the forty-two private acres surrounding a mansion impeccably restored in the best English tradition. We will be treated royally in our sumptuously and handsomely appointed guest room complete with a whirlpool bath, heated towel racks and personal plush robes."

I pound the dash of Babe's car with both fists. "Can't you make your jitney move any faster? This ol' body of mine is hankering to be treated royally. Sumptuously. It longs to be pampered like Scarlett O'Hara before you Yankees yanked Tara out from under her hoop skirts."

Babe looks away from the road long enough to cock his head to one side and roll his eyes. "Quit with the drama and simmer down. Think massage, whirlpool bath. Personal Plush Robes."

I sit back and ponder the promised amenities awaiting us at the secluded, romantic inn. I smack my lips in anticipation of the chilled bucket of promised French Champagne. I drool, big time, when I think of the romantic dinner tonight in the Five-Star restaurant.

Eat your heart out, Scarlett.

If things go as planned, this weekend will be a perfect way to celebrate our marriage. When I think of the wedding itself, I have to laugh. It was a hoot, thanks in part to Babe's former girlfriends who boycotted the ceremony.

Outrageously handsome in his new tux, Babe waited for me to cakewalk like a duck down the aisle, looking calm as he stood next to the rather fidgety rector. I had no idea at the time that he had popped four Tequila shots before entering the sanctuary.

I was gazing at my handsome groom to be, my heart flip-flopping all over the place, when suddenly my three-year-old grandson, the slated ring bearer, went ballistic.

The boy had seemed a bit jumpy earlier, but I figured a squirm here or there was normal for someone his age dressed in a monkey suit. My own son, who would later walk me down the aisle, saw the child's distress and quickly stooped down to kid level.

Quietly, he said, "Don't be scared. You're going to do just fine. In just a few minutes, you'll take that pretty little white pillow with the ring on it and carry it down the aisle. That's going to be fun."

The child's chin quivered and his eyes filled with tears. Before his daddy could give him the intended supportive hug, and before the vocalist could finish warbling her bad rendition of "The Rose," the kid let out a toenail-curling scream.

"I WANT MY MOMMEEEEEEE!"

As if on cue, the music stopped. The wedding guests on both sides of the church swiveled around in their seats. The jiggy rector fumbled and nearly dropped his Prayer Book, but Babe maintained his Tequila cool.

Sprinting like a youthful Joe Montana, he reached the boy in about five seconds, picked him up and walked himring pillow and allto his mother's waiting arms.

Did I mention that the sanctuary was SRO? All the guests murmured low, many even laughed out loud. Babe seemed to be oblivious until he returned to the front of the church.

Bowing deeply, he grinned. "As you all can see, that was not the bride having second thoughts, as some of you may have thought." His eyes then searched for and found my own, at which time his grin turned to a wide smile. Crooking his index finger in my direction, he said, "Get on down here, darlin.' We've got a show to put on."

He received a standing ovation.

I did not cakewalk down the aisle to the melodic strains of Handel's Water Music as previously planned. I hiked up my long dress and galloped like Sea Biscuit straight to the arms of my waiting groom. Okay, so maybe it wasn't the kind of wedding they write about in Brides Magazine, but for me, it was the tasty appetizer to a full meal.

God surely was in an extra fine mood the day Babe and I met. Looking down from Heaven, He couldn't help but notice a displaced Southern Belle living by herself two blocks from a stubborn ol' Yankee who was no more a Rhett than she was a Scarlett. "Hey, Cupid. Take a look at this," he said with a wink. "If I remember correctly, you said you were looking for a new challenge. I've got a doozy for you."

Cupid agreed, and the rest is history.

By the time we pull into the circular drive at the inn, my images of luxury have been replaced with all the memories banked over the past 87,600 hours. It doesn't seem like that long ago that we began to laugh, cry and grow together. Each of those hours have been a gift and I have to wonder how on earth we got so lucky.

We unlock the door to our luxurious suite complete with a fireplace, whirlpool bath and, uh huh & personal plush robes. I sigh contentedly, bat my eyes and purr like a cat.

Face it, Scarlett O'Hara. You never had it so good.