We were best friends.

We met the first day of college almost 19 years ago - survey of Western philosophy. We made each other laugh. We shared books. We were always there to give each other a shoulder or a kick, depending on what the circumstances required.

We were best friends.

And 15 years ago today, we stood together in a town park gazebo with our families and closest friends while a summer shower drew a silver curtain around us. We read poems. We traded rings. We got hitched.

We were 22.

Now, I've met my share of 22-year-old people, and I wouldn't trust most of them to park my car, much less choose a lifelong spouse and parent for their children.

How did we know?

How could we possibly have guessed that a couple of poetry scribbling kids would turn into adults who could successfully do things like raise children, buy houses and survive illness and grief and a handful of hurricanes?

Over the years I've had many friends ponder that question: How do you know?

How do you know if this is the one and only absolutely perfect person who will never irritate you with the way she eats cereal or sings to the supermarket muzak?

How do you know that this is the one and only perfect time to make that move and tie the knot? How do you know when it's the perfect moment to have children. How do you know whether you really want to have children at all?

The fact is, when my husband and I decided one spring day that we would - what the hay - give this marriage thing a shot, we didn't know. We didn't know one little bit.

Nobody knows.

You make your best guess and you hope with all your might and you leap in heart-first. In my experience, that formula stands true for marriages, for children, for houses and dogs and even for the best place to take your out-of-town guests for lunch.

For the most part, I've made pretty good guesses. I've had a lot of dumb luck.

And I've made my share of poor choices, as well.

The honeymoon, for instance.

After eating cake with our loved ones in my new in-laws' living room, we ran through a shower of rice to my husband's blue Toyota Corolla liftback (1986, yo) and sped down the highway toward New Orleans. I changed from my wedding dress into a T-shirt and shorts in the car.

If you've never been to New Orleans in August - even the very end of August - do yourself a favor and open your dishwasher in mid-cycle and let the steam overtake you until you fear you might lose consciousness on the kitchen floor. New Orleans in summertime is like that, only hotter and more humid.

It was Labor Day weekend, so in addition to being miserably hot, it also was miserably crowded. We stayed in a hotel outside of town and drove in every day. We spent the days walking through Jackson Square and the French Market.

We browsed the quaint antique stores and secondhand shops in the Quarter for souvenirs of our joyous occasion. And, because we were such smart youngsters, we decided that a cane-seated chair and a wrought-iron floor lamp would be the perfect trinkets to spirit home with us. But first we had to spirit them through many, many city blocks.

Our winding journey from antique store to car was briefly interrupted by - who knew - the procession of the annual Southern Decadence gay pride parade. We stood on the sidewalk with our chair and our lamp, sweating into our sneakers as half a dozen Nancy Sinatras in silver dresses and white go-go boots danced down the street.

See - no matter how ill-advised my choices are, dumb luck visits me in spite of myself. We were 22, in love and roaming a romantic old city.

Best of all, we had both just married our best friend.

I could not believe our good fortune. Fifteen years of real life later, I still can't believe my luck.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger is a freelance writer who is not ashamed to sing along to all the hits of the '80s in the grocery store. She can be reached at VillageWordsmith@hughes.net.