The thing is I just got married. That, after decades of swearing I'd never get married again, is something to laugh about.

My track record in the romance department has caused family and friends to question my sanity. More than once, their words of caution thankfully inspired me to re-evaluate situations I'd wandered into. On other occasions, they helped me pick myself up, brush myself off and, while smiling patiently, listened to me say, "Never again."

Then there's the pride that comes from surviving as a single person, complete with a single-mom badge, fierce independence and Frank Sinatra singing "I'll Do It My Way" in the background. For all of you so smugly coupled up, it's no small thing to go anywhere or do anything alone. Travel. Movies. Dinners. Pay the bills. Even a trip to the grocery store is a reminder that being solo is the square peg to the round hole of a two-for-one world. Once experienced, the sense of accomplishment that comes from standing strong, albeit alone, in the midst of a married community is a significant achievement.

And don't overlook the effect of hearing married friends say things like "I'm jealous" and "I'm envious" and "You don't know how good you've got it." That just strengthens the commitment to put self first.

All that said, my friend Kathleen once told me she was sure I'd meet somebody through my writing. Little did I know when another friend, Jerry, suggested I write about the Coast Guard Auxiliary, it would lead to meeting the "somebody" that fulfilled Kathleen's prophecy. From the first phone interview, I knew Sandy was someone special.

He, on the other hand, was slow to get the message. Still, I hung in there, repeatedly positioning myself where I knew he'd show up.

Two years later, he asked me to dinner.

That evening, we were very clear with each other, the two most up-front communicators on the planet. Each of us loved being single. Neither of us wanted to get married. Someone with whom to date was all we were interested in. "Casual dating" was the phrase we used to define what we were looking for.

A year later, he proposed.

My stronger-than-steel support system was cautious to congratulate. Not only had they seen me through lots of twists and turns, but I'd checked with them almost every time Sandy took a breath, eager for outside confirmation he wasn't a freak and I wasn't an idiot.

Then there are our ages. Sandy and I aren't kids. Heck, let's be honest; we're past our 50s. Speaking for myself, I didn't get this far in life without being oh-so-set in my ways. Although my heart had warmed to the idea of marriage, my feet were ice cold. Our engagement was a roller-coaster ride, filled with reasons to push back our wedding date more than once.

Finally, with me loudly, clearly, adamantly, repeatedly affirming up to the night before that marriage would change nothing, Sandy and I said, "I do."

No sooner were the words out of our mouths than we realized everything had changed. We took one look at each other and started laughing. And we haven't stopped.

We laugh at ourselves. At our cautious approach. At our eagerness to get it "right." At our awareness we'll make mistakes. At the time of life this has come along.

We look around, at our wonderfully extended family, which reaches from a 100-year-old by-marriage relative to a 4-month-old grandson and the two of us tucked somewhere in between, and that makes us laugh at how rich life has become.

We consider how in the world to combine our day-to-day lives with my cat and cabin in Ninilchik and Sandy's house and sailboat in Homer, and that makes us laugh at how blessed we are.

I've got a stack of library books gathering dust and he's got an office full of paperwork, but we're neither reading nor filing right now because we're discovering our new roles as husband and wife, and that makes us laugh.

Behind us is the incredible journey from "casual dating" to being married. Ahead of us lies the adventure of sharing our lives. Considering our past, our present and the unknown future makes us laugh.

Last, but not least, are all the well-wishes we've received. The many cards, e-mails and phone calls. The warm hugs. The words of encouragement. We're aware of a web of support much larger than we'd imagined, and the comfort of that makes us laugh.

There's a word for all this laughter, my husband tells me: Joy.

Who'd have guessed?

And if that doesn't make you laugh, I don't know what will. It does me.

McKibben Jackinsky is a reporter for the Homer News.