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Last August my wife, Ramona, and I celebrated 20 years of married life—most of them good ones. It's a curious thing, reaching this milestone. When I was a boy, the only ones celebrating 20th anniversaries were old people with ample wrinkles, high foreheads, and starchy clothing—people who were so old they'd reached their forties and had little time left. Most of them seemed happy. Others looked like love was a dream and marriage was the alarm clock.

In my case, 20 years together is nothing short of miraculous, considering that I proposed to Ramona by chain letter. This is what it said:

Dear Ramona Bjorndal,

Do not throw away this letter! It was started by my ancestors just after The Great Flood and it's NEVER BEEN BROKEN! To keep the chain going, all you have to do is marry me. This will include providing decent meals, clean laundry, and lots of love for the next 60 years. In return, you will receive my undying devotion, occasional flowers, chocolate, and access to my car keys until death do us part. If you break the chain, you'll be destined to live a life of misery and boredom, much like the math class I'm sitting in now.

It was pretty clever stuff for a tenth grader, I thought, and four years later, when I summoned the courage to show it to her, she laughed. And agreed to marry me anyway.

In August, we returned to the same hotel where we first shared a pillow two decades ago. I gasped at the price, reminding myself that it cost $39 in 1982 ("Did they even have hotels back then?" my 13-year-old later asked). The staff was so impressed that a couple could stay together this long they couldn't spoil us enough. They wheeled in complimentary chocolates, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and a large bottle of champagne-on-ice. I've always had enough fun sober, so we bypassed the tiny bubbles and went straight for the chocolate, then sat in a hot tub talking of some pretty sweet years together.

I suppose there are a hundred reasons we still share the same phone number and address. Here are my top five:

We left no alternatives. The first three years of our marriage were miserable. Until I got a divorce—a divorce from loving myself and seeking my own way. What a difference it's made. Finding the right person, I've since discovered, is less important than being the right person.

We even golf together. My wife enjoys golf about as much as I enjoy shopping for curtain fabric. Still she comes along sometimes and cheers as I putt. Our fifth anniversary was celebrated on a golf course at her suggestion. Perhaps that's why I find it easier to move furniture when she asks. Or vacuum carpets. Or bathe the dog. One of these days I'll get up the nerve to enter a curtain fabric store.

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