I waited for what felt like forever for my now-husband to propose to me. We both knew that we should graduate college before making permanent plans, but it seemed like that moment would not come fast enough.

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Finally, as I was helping him move some of his old belongings from his parent’s house to his apartment one night, he called me into a bedroom under the pretense of helping him lug a box out to his Explorer. Instead of the large box I was expecting, I saw a small one with a sparkly rock inside and he was down on one knee. I was so surprised I didn’t even give him a proper answer, which he still teases me about.

It seems like just yesterday, but in fact, we have just celebrated our first year as man and wife. It seems like a blur. The planning that went into the wedding was overwhelming, and yet I hardly remember anything about the ceremony.

We just got our pictures back and I am glad we hired a photographer, because under the threat of death, I could not tell you half the people who showed up. Judging by the pictures, it was a lovely ceremony, but to me, it was a whirlwind, a mish-mash of faces and words that I’m glad was documented.

This past year has been, for the most part, wonderful. I heard from many married people that the first year would be the hardest. If this is the worst I will have to face, then marriage is definitely for me. I like living with my best friend and soulmate. It doesn’t hurt that he’s really cute, too.

That’s not to say we didn’t have a few rough patches. I happen to be a gigantic slob with too many articles of clothing strewn about our apartment. I’m also terrible at doing the dishes. Unfortunately, my dad was a wonderful housekeeper and cleaned and folded my clothes practically before they hit the floor. I became very accustomed to this and it was a nasty shock that when I moved out, no one was there to scrub my pots and pans or launder my jeans.

Therefore, things started to pile up and, currently, I really need to clean up my living room.

Matt cannot stand my shoes piled up by the door and my handbag fetish. However, he still rubs my feet when I give him my pitiful face and kisses my forehead when I’ve had a bad day. His hugs can cure just about anything and no one can make me laugh harder. He’s patient when I have my space cadet blonde moments and when my parents need computer help. Frankly, I have no earthly idea why he puts up with me.

I’m more than grateful he does, though. We had a wonderful time celebrating our anniversary in Atlanta and I look forward to dancing to our song at our 50th, with our children and grandchildren looking on and smiling.

E-mail Megan Sprague at .

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