I haven't laid eyes on it for 30 years. I thought it was in some kind of hermetically sealed wrapper, but turns out it was just laying there in a large box at my father's house. One of his upstairs bedrooms is being refurbished, and I was asked to take it home. I can hardly refuse, even though it feels very strange to be doing so.

At home, I open the box gingerly, and there it is--very Princess Di, ivory-colored, long-sleeved, off-the shoulder, scoop neck; beaded at the bodice but quite plain otherwise, very full in the skirt and train, lots of little buttons running up the back and down the sleeves. There's so much of it-it's massive. The headpiece is an odd little cap with a long filmy veil.

The good news is, it still fits. But what do I actually do with it? My husband David, daughter Cam and I stare at the heaping pile of fabric.

"Somebody might want it," I venture.

"Someone from the Eighties, maybe" Cam says definitively. "Call the Eighties and see if they want their dress back."

Both daughters nix the idea of ever wearing the dress, for which I don't blame them. It's so unlike today's sleek, strapless styles, and why shouldn't they have their own dresses, when the time comes? I remember picking it out at the famous Pricilla bridal shop. It was one of the first ones I tried on, and both my mother and I gave a little gasp when I put it on. It was the perfect dress for a 25 year-old me in 1985. I remember my mother sitting in that dressing room, never exhibiting the slightest doubt that I was doing the right thing.

Because she could have. Most sane parents would have, on account of the fact that David and I had a relatively short courtship before we got engaged. Short-like four weeks. David says that it's three weeks, but I maintain that it was certainly four. Not all that much time, when you come right down to it.

We met at a singles mixer at the now defunct Michael's on the Waterfront in Boston. I endured a painful hour and was calling it quits, when across the crowded room, I saw David, and he saw me.  We talked for at least five hours that night. When you meet the person you've been waiting for your whole life, there is a lot to catch up on.

So it seemed like absolutely the right thing to do three-or four-weeks later, when both of us, mutually, asked each other to get married. When we showed up at my parent's house, an engagement ring on my finger, my father uttered a phrase that can't be printed in this paper, starting with "You've got to be bleeping me"  My mother, however, was beside herself with joy from the start, although later she admitted that when we told her we had something to show her, she thought we were going to bring in an exotic animal-a goat, maybe.

So, 30 years, June 8. That's a long time to be with someone and still be interested in what they have to say, but we are. We work together much of the time too, and haven't throttled each other yet. David says that something I said early in our marriage really struck a chord with him, which is that it doesn't matter how well you treat everyone else in the world if you don't treat always your spouse with kindness and consideration. I don't remember saying this, but am happy to take credit for it. And that is how he has treated me, all these years. He also makes me laugh until I feel sick, which is a good thing.

A few years ago the minister who married us came to our church as a guest preacher. After the sermon we greeted him, introduced ourselves, and thanked him for his services at our wedding. He looked at us, with three lovely kids, and declared "It looks like it worked out!"

And it has. It has worked out so incredibly well. Which is why it doesn't really matter what I do with my wedding dress. It had its moment many years ago, and all the moments since then are what really count.

Happy anniversary, dear David. Thank you for everything you do for me. I don't know if we've got another 30 years in us, but I think we should give it our very best shot.

This column was published in the Daily News of Newburyport on June 8, 2015.