On the edge of 17

Confession:  I met my husband for the first time at a catholic youth organization picnic.  ( How funny is that given my current state of non-believing?)

It was August 27, 1993.  I had just turned 16 and was brand new in town, my family having just moved there from Montana.  My mom thought I could 'meet some nice people' at the gathering.  He was 17, an incoming senior and adorable in a grunge-rock 90's sort of way:  A tall, muscular redhead with shoulder length hair, combat boots, flannel shirts...a guitar player.  Neither of us were at the CYO picnic by choice.

We were attracted to eachother right away and I got grounded a couple days later for staying out super late with him after a Welcome Back to School dance.  After all, we were in a new town and I was with a boy I barely even knew.   No cell phones in those days.  I remember trying to call my parents once during the evening to let them know we were going to hang out after the dance, but I got a busy signal.  In an effort to appear cool, I shrugged it off and headed towards the city park with him, where we swayed back and forth in swings in the dark and talked the night away.  Sometime around 2am, my folks found us and the sound of rage in my father's voice is something I'll never forget.

By the way, the Husband got congratulatory high-fives from his parents for the same incident.  Double standards!

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Anyhow, here we are, 17 years later.  That is a long ass time.  Over half my life, that I've known and loved this man.   
Craziness.