"Lessons in love, life and laundry"

Intelligent. Athletic. Christian. Loyal. Compassionate. Funny. Adventurous. Family-oriented. Thoughtful. Loving. Good singer and maybe a guitar player too.
These qualities and others filled my journal as I wrote down specifically what I desired in a mate at the age of 16. Some were nonnegotiable, while others were a bit more picky. Still, my mentor at the time said not to leave anything out; so I didn’t.
When I met Ryan Wingo, the circumstances were perfect. As we sat next to each other on a bus driving through the mountains in Ecuador preparing to give new shoes to children who had never worn any before, I could not help but think I had found my soulmate.
It sealed the deal when we got home, and he immediately ended a long relationship, which seemed to be headed toward marriage. He was 24 and I was a senior in high school. I was young and in love with my Prince Charming.
Three years of college later, I was the one wearing the ring. As I began to prepare for the day every little girl dreams of, it happened — marriage counseling. All of a sudden my life went from people telling me not to rush things and to wait patiently on the right timing, to getting overloaded with information about love and marriage, from how to cook a perfect meal in under 30 minutes, to how to show respect to my husband even when I do not think he deserves it. With the shocking statistics of couples getting divorced each year, I was determined it would not be us.
Early on we discussed techniques for communication, how to live off 80 percent of our income and how to make sure the fire never burns out in our marriage.
One book we were encouraged to read was about knowing the main way both you and your spouse give and receive love. Apparently if we did not know these secrets about each other before the wedding day, we would never be happy together.
One day, my mom asked me which of the five “love languages” described in the book I most identified with; I laughingly said, “all of them.” “I want to be told I am beautiful and loved, be planned for, receive gifts, be held and touched and be loved through acts of service,” I said. I realized I was probably expecting a lot; some might have called me high maintenance. But, that is what I thought everyone deserved.
As I began to absorb this information overload, which was very helpful, I decided I knew enough about relationships for the time being and began to move on to other important things — like what color green was the perfect match for our living room walls, and where in the world I was going to put the fifteen crystal bowls we’d received as wedding presents.
As the daughter of a pastor at a large church, I had wedding shower overload. My parent’s dining room was overflowing with gifts and what started out as me running to the front door to rip open the boxes containing items from our registry quickly faded to me ignoring them for a few days until I figured out how I would ever manage to finish all of those thank you notes.
Ryan’s side of the guest list included just over 100 people. Mine, on the other hand, included our entire church as well as my family and friends. Saying I was planning a large wedding was an understatement. I tried to remember through the engagement months to enjoy that time in our relationship and not to get caught up in the details of the wedding because marriage is about much more than one day.
Our wedding day was beautiful and exactly how I had always dreamed it would be. I wore my mother’s veil and walked arm-in-arm with my father down the long aisle to Ryan, who was smiling the whole time. Any fear or insecurities I had, wiped away as I made my way down to him standing at the front of the church to say “I do.” All of our friends and family were present, and the day turned out to be beautiful.
A cutting of the cake, run through rose petals, ride in a limo, trip to Mexico and bad case of food poisoning later, we came back to our first home as a couple — a rental from some friends of ours. This is when marriage took on a whole new meaning.
The first few weeks I was living in a fantasy world. Each day I woke up early, went to work, came home, washed and folded laundry while also neatly putting both his and mine away, started cooking dinner, later cleaned up the kitchen, went for a run and sat down to watch Sports Center with my husband.
It didn’t take me long to realize I was exhausted, he could put up his own laundry, groceries were expensive, recipes with 35 ingredients were not practical for us, I shouldn’t be the only one cleaning the kitchen and I hated Sports Center.
If it is not clear by now, I am a "Type-A" personality and am constantly stressed over small things while pushing to keep myself busy, tackling the things that need to be done. My parents tell a story about me when I was in kindergarden that proves this point. One day before school, I had too many things I was trying to shove in my backpack. Needless to say, they were not all fitting how I wanted them to. I walked over to my parents and, almost in tears, told them I was “stressed” because “i could not fit my books in my book-bag.”
My husband, on the other hand, is fun and laid-back and always encouraging me to sit down for a while and to stop overcommitting myself. Everyone who meets him loves him from the start, and he often brings me back to reality. The differences in our personality work wonderfully together at times but clash at others.
Every time I felt myself getting aggravated about something Ryan either did or did not do, the stereotypes of wives being nags or inconsiderate of a hard-working husband began to flood my head. As much as I didn’t want to fit that mold, I also did not want to be stuck working, going to school and doing all of the housework by myself. Besides, I reasoned that it is actually men’s fault women are called nags, because if they would be more thoughtful and considerate, we would never have to ask them to do things in the first place.
The memories from marriage counseling about love and respect, patience and self-sacrifice and putting my mate’s needs above my own sometimes made an appearance in my mind; but the nail biting, wet towels on the floor and endless amounts of sports on the television quickly overshadowed them.
I began to resent my husband and make mental lists of every move he made that I felt was inconsiderate, selfish or annoying. The idea of living with a “boy” for the rest of my life began to be daunting. I loved him — definitely, and all days were not as bad as others; but still, my instinctual female ability to remember every wrong done only to whip them out in attack when my husband least expected it, and then break down in uncontrollable tears was in overdrive. These situations brought back the same old feelings of not being able to “get my books in my book-bag,” only quite intensified.
One night, I had a paper to write and a test the next day in school. I had fixed Ryan’s favorite meal for dinner and was too busy to clean up afterward. I decided I would do what I had not let myself do before — forget about the messy kitchen and the laundry that needed to be folded and work on my homework.
An amazing thing happened that night. As I sat in the office with the door closed trying to drown out the sound of the television, my sweet husband walked in to tell me he had cleaned the kitchen, folded the clothes and was putting them away while I worked. Then he said the thing that still rings so loudly in my ears: “I can’t believe you do this by yourself so often. This is hard work!”
There it was. Victory. I felt joy and satisfaction rise up in my heart. I never had to say a word. I could not be accused of being a nag. But, the thing that moved me the most was the amount of love I felt from my husband when he did what needed to be done around the house just because he wanted to help me.
Any anger I had allowed to build up toward him melted away and I felt so lucky to have a husband like him. Besides, I had heard the horror stories of men who thought women were meant to do the house work alone and let the husband rest after a hard day of providing for the family. My husband did not have that attitude at all; he realized how much I had on my plate and that I could not do everything alone.
After a short moment of feeling I had won a major battle, I realized I had been viewing this marriage thing all wrong. I was constantly looking out for whether or not Ryan was considering my best interest. Even though I had convinced myself I was actually serving him by doing the housework myself, I was really trying to silently prove a point that I did more around the house than he did, and he should thank me. That was the first of many lessons in how truly selfish I actually am.
Now, 11 months into marriage, I have realized some important things. For instance, though my music-loving husband never lets me listen to more than five seconds of a song while driving in the car, he is the only one I want to go on road trips with. And, though he bites his nails, he can play the heck out of a guitar. And, even though he changes clothes entirely too many times during the day, he is the only man whose underwear I will wash and fold.
In short, I have realized that though we are different, he is the only person who can make me a better me. That is why I married him. I have learned marriage is more than butterflies in your stomach; it is more than total physical attraction at all times of the day; it is more than a white house with a picket fence. Marriage is a commitment, and I am glad I am married to my best friend.
I have come to appreciate the differences between us, because they make our marriage work. Now we are facing newer challenges, like how to convince our new dog that our neighbor's yard is not the best place to use the bathroom. I have become much more laid-back and am, hopefully, a much more enjoyable, easygoing person to live with.
I realize one year into marriage is still a long way from learning all there is to know about how to make a marriage work, but I think we are off to a good start. Now, sitting in our living room, which is painted the perfect shade of olive green, and staring into our kitchen at the crystal bowls lining the top of our cabinets, I can’t help but think our marriage is only getting sweeter and our time-limit for finishing our thank you notes is only drawing nearer.
Well, I better get to writing.