In most situations, you only get one shot at it. And that one shot will be remembered for a lifetime––and not just by you either. If done right, it will entirely maybe, even permanently melt, the hearts of everyone that hears how it all went down. Fittingly, tears of felicitous joy should be shed as the shear romantic beauty of it soaks into one’s soul. Then, your own fond memories of how it went down for you and yours cascade through your own sense of present, stirring even more emotion. The ‘it’ is no small matter.. It’s once. It’s emotion. It’s commitment. It’s love. And it will never be forgotten. It’s a precise point in time. A pinpoint in time that is preparatory to the melding of an eternity past with an eternity future.

So… if the dude gots his head on straight, ‘it’ means a whole heck of a stinking lot.. it’s like one of the most masculine (but romantic) duties that you can dutifully fulfill in this typically unromantic life. You do it with your own kinda style and with careful, precise, and planned measures.

Forget the wordy intro. I’m freaking engaged and stuff to the coolest woman on earth. And I’m about to tell you how it went down. This is not a short story. It was not an easy thing. Neither was it a quick and easy thing.. as you will see. It took a full 8 hours to go down.

In hindsight, though, the hilarity is quite singular. Since I can’t possibly recount the chronicles of last night in person, I figured I’d do the next most gentlemanly thing and write them (took me 8+ hours). Post them. And you’ve received the link.

This is long… If you do make it through, please leave a comment at the end letting us know you were here. It doesn’t matter if we don’t even know you or if you aren’t family, we would love to hear from you. Just click on ‘add a comment’ at the bottom.

But first, hold on to your hearts and pay attention. This is a fun ride. Don’t distract yourself by trying to multi-task while reading this. It won’t have the same effect. Please.. feel free to laugh and cry as you may. This is worthy of both gestures. I’ve done both while writing this so you can do the same while reading it.

This is how it went down..

The Build Up…

When a couple breaks the M-word barrier (when they start talking about ‘marriage’ without referring to it in code names) and leaks the news to their mothers so that, in turn, the tenacious planning gets under way, the dude loses the element of surprise… unless he’s conniving. An expected proposal for marriage, in my book, just doesn’t have the same affect. Surprise, ingenuity, etc., is the general rule. A dude must still encourage the element of surprise, shock, and awe even if ‘it’ is expected.

I had been working on prepping and preconditioning Janica and almost everyone else to assume that for various reasons I was going to wait till the last minute to ask her to marry me (though we’d been planning the wedding for weeks and most everyone we know was expecting to hear the news anytime). I also made an effort to quench and reformulate unsuspecting Janica’s expectations about the ring, so that I could “under promise and way over deliver,” in a shock and awe-like manner. Over deliver like a whole lot and stuff… like a good salesperson would.. all to achieve the desired affect. I was secretly anxious and almost over zealous to get on with it, to be ‘official.’ This last week I’d been impatiently waiting for the ring to be finished. That was the only hold up.

I decided to design the ring myself. I went in a did the whole deal without telling anyone. I had previously found out Janica’s size and taste. Turns out the ring I had been imagining in my mind for years would fit her tastes just right. I was still incredibly nervous that for some reason she wouldn’t like it. I so wanted to get it right the first time without having to exchange it for something else.

Being a semi-romantic dude, for the last long while (I ain’t know how long) I’d been thinking about how to help it all go down right. I was thinking about how to do my duty thing just right––romantic, surprise, shock, awe, hyperventilation, eye-fanning, etc. I’m conniving and calculating when it comes to these things. And I had an idea that was perfectly genius (I’m assuming it was genius, I didn’t ask anyone’s opinion really).

Little did I know, the whole deal went down far different than I had planned it would… far, far different. And that, my friends, makes all the difference.

It starts…

Earlier in the week I had innocently asked Janica if she wanted to go have a picnic at the beach one evening and watch the sun set. There was nothing atypical about such a thing. She unassumingly said that would be agreeable. I was hoping that would happen Wednesday night. That was not to be because the dadgum ring wasn’t done yet.

Yesterday, Thursday, September 18th, was my first day as an employee, in a very long time. That.. was weird. I’ve been so used to working for myself. Luckily, I love what I do at SEO.com. I’d been doing it for free for a long time and now I get paid for it.. and I still do it for free in my spare time.

About half way through my first day I get a call from the diamond store. Janica’s ring is ready. I lost all focus for the rest of the day. The minutes creeped by… not crept, creeped… like a creep would creep.. haunting me.

I couldn’t wait any longer to axe her to marry me. I made the decision right then that it was going down that night. (Insight: In case you don’t know me very well, once I decide to do something, I usually don’t stop until I get it done.. I had a real bad case of that one-track-mindedness yesterday). I left work a bit later than I had planned for. That put me behind from the start.

It was 5:30 p.m. The sun would go down in one hour and forty-five minutes and I needed the sun to complete the romantic affect I desired. The weather was perfect. I had my idea. But I had no materials. I needed some props to pull it off. So I go hunt for some props.

First stop: The most important prop. The diamond store all the way across town. Check.

It’s 6:00 pm.

Second stop: I have no idea.

Now, I’m not an arts-and-craftiness-oriented person. I don’t spend much time in Michael’s or Joann’s or Robert’s. So when I needed ‘props’ I could only assume where they would most likely be found. For reasons that will be explained, I needed a corked bottle, some packaging string or twill, and parchment paper. That’s it. Simple right?

I went to all those previously named stores, along with Bed, Bath & Beyond, and Pier 1 Imports. A simpler thing would have been to hop on down to the nearest booze place and buy some booze right? Would have saved me an hour.

It’s 7:00 p.m.

The bottle ended up being only seven or eight inches high and really skinny, with thick glass. Would it float? Maybe my physics are off here… In any case, if it was going to do the trick, it needed a note stuffed inside it.. a crafty-ish one with some choice words that would be like a romantic moment lubricant. I wrote the choice words on the choice parchment, antiqued paper and I jimmy-rigged the string so the finder of the bottle would be able to pull the choice note out. Foreshadowing the frustrations to come, the dumb thing wouldn’t fit. I wrote another note, this time one a smaller piece of paper with smaller handwriting. After rolling up the paper and jimmy-rigging the string.. wouldn’t fit.. and the string slipped off. So how do I get the paper out?… Hmmm… The third time. With an even smaller piece of paper (the last sliver of paper I had) and smaller writing.. It fit. Barely. So I popped on the cork, leaving a tag end of the string hanging out of the bottle.

I had my prop done, all fancied up with an uber-romantic note on the inside. It was 7:15 p.m. I was sweating. But I wouldn’t be sweating for long because the sun was going down, taking all the romantic mojo with it.

What to do with the bottle? Luckily, I was already at Utah Lake, where I’d planned for it to go down. I’d bought the stuff and headed there to assemble the prop. I got out of the car and ran to the only 30’ stretch of beach and quickly found the softest 16 square feet of sand.. the only patch of sand on that rocky beach. For picnic purposes, that was where we would set out the blanket and eat our gourmet tuna fish sandwiches that Janica was preparing. We’d texted each other, coordinating dinner. I half buried the bottle in the sand as if it had been misshapenly washed ashore. I would help her happen upon it when the opportune moment presented itself.

The sun had already sunk past the horizon. I had only minutes left of romanticism, as the brightening sunset would shortly follow the sinking sun. I sped home and picked up Janica. At this point I’m still sweating. I haven’t shaved. My breath is… miscalculated that one. And let me just say that my mind wasn’t set on conducting slick-like-a-cat conversation, though I knew that was important to disguise my plight.

My mind was going a thousand miles a minute. How do I ask her? Knees? Sitting down? How should I give her the ring? Where should I put the ring. How do I keep the ring from her? Do I hide it? What do I say to introduce this mysterious little green corked bottle with a message in it without her suspecting anything? Is she on to me? Is the bottle safe? Would anyone walk off with it? There were tons of fisherman there… How long is the sunset going to last? Will it still be romantic? Does my breath smell that bad? (Luckily, I found a mint a bit later in the mess that is my car, another miscalculation). Will she like the ring? What if she thinks this production of mine is cheesy?

I thought about a lot of things on the way back to Utah Lake and my little ‘setting.’ I thought about everything, or did I? I failed to consider romanticism’s arch-nemesis, the blood sucking killer mosquito hoard at Utah Lake. We got out of the car. Walked to the spot. Set out the blanket. Sat, and promptly lost six quarts of blood. In an instant, billions of mosquitoes everywhere.. completely everywhere.. on everything.. sucking dry every square inch of uncovered skin. It wasn’t going down like that. No way. We ran back to the car and sheltered ourselves. We spent a couple minutes killing the mosquitoes that managed to make it in to the car with us.

The tuna fish was surprisingly good. I had my fill, but the mosquitoes didn’t. They were stacking up ten-high on the windows, begging us to emerge. I’d never seen so many. I’d never seen so much opposition come from such little things. Jumanji? We drove away, and consequently drove them off.. the windows at least. Mosquitoes dissipate when it gets dark. They only live one night, if they’re lucky. So I was going to wait a bit and try again when they weren’t as thick. We drove around going to the edge of the jetty and back. The bugs weren’t letting up. It was now 8:15 p.m. September the 18th. The light faded. It was dark. The bottle was still in the sand.

Immediately my mind was racing. How can I fix this and still salvage the ‘it’. I could still pull it off if I found some other body of water close by without miniature oppositions everywhere. But first, I must retrieve the bottle. I stopped the car and said to Janica,”I’m going to go see how bad it is now.” I jumped out of the car and went to where I’d hid the bottle. I couldn’t see it anywhere. It was dark.

Awkward amount of time passes.

I finally find it and Janica finally sees me duck down to the sand and pop back up. I have it. I test the cork lid to see if it’s snug. It wouldn’t come lose. I try harder. Stuck. I try harder. Half the cork comes loose, breaking off in my hand. I can’t get the cork out. How would she? At another awkward interval, while I was supposed to be testing the bug density, I finally just twist the cork loose instead of popping it. I can only imagine what she’s thinking at this point. I’m losing my mind.

I run back to the car. Awkward conversation ensues, riddled with random humming of a Coldplay song and singing to the radio as an excuse for not talking. Good way to distract the conversation I thought. After an eternity, I say, “Gosh dang it! I really wanted to go on a walk tonight. Where can we go on a walk?” I needed a place with water too pull it off.

Six options that were close to Utah Lake with little to no mosquitoes: Campus, campus, campus, campus, the park by Wal*Mart, or the mental hospital (at this point I really felt like I belonged at the Utah State Mental Hospital anyways). Campus would give me the highest degree of probability. Janica even suggested the park by Wal*Mart. When she did, I asked, “Does it have a fountain?” She has no idea why I want a ‘fountain.’ I had askedfor a ‘walk’ not a ‘fountain.’ She looks at me as if I’ve completely lost it. I had. But I was undeterred. It was going down tonight somehow.

What would have been…

So, I’m sure you’re all wondering what I would have done had the Utah Lake bit played itself out flawlessly. So here goes..

After eating the gourmet picnic staring into the setting sun, I help Janica happen upon the mysterious corked bottle. “What the heck is that? That’s curious. I’ve never seen a bottle like.. it still has a cork in it! Check it out!” She grabs it. Examining, she finds a string that is connected with sumpin inside. At the end of the string, she sees a little rolled up sumpin. She uncorks. Pulls the string. Unwinds. Reads. Ahhhhh…. She screams, fans her eyes and hyper-ventilates.

Here’s where it would have gotten real good. She wasn’t expecting much as far as a ring goes. I would have gotten down on one knee and asked her just as straight as you can ask a woman to marry you.  (I figure you don’t need to mess around with colorful language at this juncture, not a time for flowery-ness). She says ‘Yes.’ A very simple word––dignifiedly so.

But the ring? Ah yes the ring. Wink. This is my shear romantic geniusness. I would take the string, size it right, wrap it round her ring finger and say “Here’s to a beautiful start.” Then hold her for a while. Knowing Janica, she’d be happy with a string ring… for a while at least. Count of Monte Cristo anyone? Bomb show. Love it. The author of the book and the screenwriter stole that idea from me…

While watching the sun set.. time for a walk. The south side of the marina has a very long right angled jetty. I take her all the way to the end, out where it’s private. Sitting on the huge rocks, watching the fading light of the sun, I reach in my pocket and pull out the first of three rings that make up the ring. It’s a band with channel set princess cut diamonds, beautiful on its own. I knew she would be happy with that alone. In silence, I’d slip off the string and put on the ring.

***Pause for the affect***

On the way back, we stop again to rest on the rocks. Stealthily, out comes the engagement ring with the super sparkly––again in silence. Normally a band and an engagement ring would make up a ‘wedding set,’ But I wanted a particularly symmetrical ring so there was one last piece I would save until the opportune moment. I wanted that moment to be on the doorstep of her apartment (across the street from my house) where all the poignant stuff in our relationship happened. And there it would be. Perfect. Simple. Affective. Surprising. All that good stuff. But see, it ain’t work out that way.

Back to Reality…

I’ve got the engagement ring safely in the chest pocket of my button up shirt. The other rings in my pant pockets. We’re cruising in my car up center street toward home, which is uber close to campus. We park the car at my house. She drops off stuff. I fix myself real fast. (Brush teeth, hair, smell-me-good-sauce, all that jazz… cuz it’s going down).

On the way up the hill to campus, I ask her where she’d like to go. I asked about ‘that place up there.’ I acted like I hadn’t been to the new waterful/river/creek manmade concoction up by the bell tower on the extreme northeast side of campus. It’s beautiful and watery so I figured it’d functionize just right to set the right mood. I succeeded in helping her want to show me this new cool place.. a place complete with water and stuff, which was what I needed to pull off the message in a bottle. This was emergency on-the-fly backup plan number one.

I’m about to get carpel tunnel syndrome, however you spell that, I don’t care. I ain’t even half done yet, but I’m still in love with Janica.

That cool place up by the bell tower is only three inches from a small city worth of freshman. They are everywhere and they are young. They’re always out at night traipsing around doing an-extension-of-high-school kind of stuff, in a kosher mormon kinda way.

Based on that possibility alone, I was worried about privacy and interruption for sure. My plans for privacy were further disrupted by a massive World of Dance show that let out precisely as we hit campus. Now, hoards of people mixed with the hoards of freshman. There’s been nothing but hoards of things all night. Crazy.

We proceed. Again, awkward conversation. My mind is rolling on despite the silence. What to do? I just have to give it a shot and hope for the best. At least I smell good and my breath is fresh. But how can I get the bottle in the water without here knowing? How will she find it?

I have had the bottle in my pocket the whole time, since I picked it off the beach. The whole night, I consciously kept that side of me away from Janica. I had left my cell phone and my wallet at home to make room in my pockets for the bottle and the camera.

It’s 9:45 p.m.

We get up to the cool place and it’s not too terribly non-private. Cept there was this dude with his head phones on sitting on the precise bench I had envisioned in my mind. that was the bench. The dude happens to be a freshman dude from Janica’s home town that used to be on Jeopardy. What a coincidence. I hope he doesn’t think I’m a jerk…

Instead of the bench, which was under a street lamp (I really wanted/needed the lamp because the writing on the paper in the bottle was super small and she’d need to read it without any problems), we walked up closer to the waterfall thingy. Beautiful it is. Loud too. Rushing waters. I think to myself, “Self, can I just throw the bottle in the waterfall and hope it floats down stream? or that it would clank on the rocks and attract her attention?” The bottle had to be durable, but how durable? Would it float. I didn’t know.

We snap some pics on the rocks by the waterfall. Awkward amount of time spent there. Lots of awkwardness everywhere around. More couples come and peruse the scene. Finally, I decide against throwing the bottle in the river, at least right there by the waterfall. I’m planning ahead… I threw some random rocks in first, making big splashes, so that throwing things in the water wouldn’t be out of place or questionable if I decided to throw the bottle in the water a bit later.

We walk back to the bench, now unoccupied and still fully lighted. We sit. I think, while humming randomly, and making complete nonsensical comments about ducks and things. There were ducks everywhere. They quack.

More awkward time passes. Millions of awkward milliseconds passed by. Couples kept passing by. More freshman. No privacy anywhere. Salvage the proposal? How would I do it? At this point, she’s got to be on to me. There’s no way I could be this awkward, this long, without her suspecting.

I thought to ask her “how’s your imagination?” And then ask her to close her eyes and imagine that she turned around and found a mysterious bottle on the beach instead. Then the bottle would appear behind her on the sidewalk. Lame. I actually did ask her about her imagination and she was adamant about answering it even after I’d blown the question off without her having to answer it. That was a hint that she was on to me. The element of surprise was slipping away quickly.. in fact, it was long gone. Though I didn’t know for sure. No matter, it was going down.

I needed at least to try to get the bottle in the water. How to do it? Here it is: I forgot my camera on the rock… I really didn’t but I ‘did.’ I tell her so and run to where we were sitting, near the waterfall. I put the camera on the rock, turned away for a split second, and went back for it so I wouldn’t be flat out lying. I was over by myself, in the dark, while she was sitting on the bench, under the light, texting her sister.

Now is my chance to get the bottle in the water. I walk half way back to the lighted bench, to where a huge boulder would somewhat break the line of site between me and her. I duck down close to the water. It’s clear, over a foot deep, with a slight current. Maybe just enough that if the bottle floats, it would drift down toward Janica and the lighted bench. Perfect.

I lean over close to the water and gently drop the bottle in, expecting it to bob back above the surface. My physics were wrong. Duh. No way the little amount of air that the bottle contained would float that thick glass. Too late. It disappeared, falling straight to the bottom.

The bottle was corked so the message would be safe to use again, if I could just get the bottle back. (I didn’t think that ripping off half the cork would weaken the cork enough to let water seep in). The bottle is still in over a foot of water and I can’t see it. There was just barely not enough light to see the little bottle on the bottom. There was a glare on the water and what light there was refracted itself so the bottom of the creek was distorted. I leaned closer to the water to try and abate the glare…

As if nothing was meant to go right, the inevitable happens. In that instant, time stood still. Almost on cue, as I bent down closer to the water, my huge investment and token of love for Janica came hopping out of my chest pocket, where it had sat silently. Maybe it too was impatient with me. It seemed to be laughing.. mocking me with all its simple splendor. The ring bounced off of a rock and plopped into the same water that swallowed my bottle.

It vanished… Worry sets in… then panic.

Despite the pending doom of wasted money and a botched engagement, I managed to chuckle to myself. I felt around for the ring. Thank goodness BYU takes good care of their water works. There was no silt on the bottom for the ring to sink in to. I felt around and quickly got the return of my investment. But the bottle?

There was no other alternative. I wanted to act like I tripped and fell in the water just to add to the irony of the moment. But then I’d have to walk all the way home with wet shoes. And I liked those shoes. I quickly stripped off my socks and shoes and rolled up my jeans and jumped in. Janica is still on the bench all by herself. I felt around and found the bottle standing vertically on the bottom of the creek.

The bottle made it safely back into my pocket. (The water would slowly seep into the bottle through the cork and ruin the note). At this point, it was actually quiet and still all around me. For once… no people. But I hadn’t gotten my ducks in a row.

So, I would just have to pull the ‘imagination’ card I’d previously decided against and play my hand. I came back over to Janica with bare feet, my jeans rolled up, my socks and shoes in my hand, and the bottle tucked in my pocket. She looked at me as if we should have gone to the mental hospital and had her walking home alone. I can only imagine how weird I must have seemed. I was tortured and tired and I just wanted to propose to the girl of my dreams. Please!!

Again we sit. And I with my internal debate as to what in Sam Hill do I do with this butchered situation. I’ll just out and ask her. Forget the bottle. Forget the romance. Forget the surprise. I just want her. I just held her for a while. Seconds later, there comes laughter from my two-o’clock. The laughter gets closer. Sounds like freshmen laughter. You know, the ‘we don’t have a care in the world’ laughter. They’re walking towards us. No privacy.

It was 10:37 p.m.

The kids have freshmanmade boats dangling from their freshman fingers. They come closer and closer. There’s ten of them. Much laughter. Much annoyance. They line up their boats in the water at the head of the little manmade creek, right by us. Camera flashes. Laughing. Freshmen talk. GO!!! Cheering. They are racing their boats down the creek.. Keep racing and racing. It’s a Thursday night. I don’t understand.

I wait. Still wanting to propose to beautiful, patient, understanding and extremely long suffering Janica. But alas, I abandon my plight at the cool place. For over an hour I battled the odds there and came up beaten. There were three other decently romantic ‘bodies of water’ on the way home and thus four more chances, because the door step would be the last resort. All the people who attended the World of Dance production were long gone.

We walk away from the cool place.

Forth to last chance: The little water display between the Museum of Art and the Fine Arts Building. The one with the creepy, weird statues and stuff. That would have been and easy spot. The water is right by the little bench I was thinking of. We approach. There’s two people wrapped all up in themselves already occupying the bench, in it’s entirety. At this point, if they would have left some room, I would have shared the moment with them and proposed to Janica there. We walk away from the forth to last chance.

Third to last chance. The pseudo-neoclassical courtyard at the JFSB. This should have been my last resort because I’ve had a history there already. This is one of my favorite spots. Again, propriety was lost to me at this point. I just wanted to get it done. I hurt emotionally and I was exhausted mentally. We get to the beautiful JFSB fountain…

Immediate shock, awe, and disbelief…

Introducing the ironic/comic relief moment of the century: Already on his knee, was a little boy who was proposing to a very big girl. Shock and awe. But not the shock and awe I was looking for. That ruined it for me. Flat out killed it dead. Not an once of romance was left in me at this point. I had no words. More awkward meaningless mumbling conversation covered up my disgust and frustration.

It was 11:10 p.m.

Second to last chance. The cliche chocolate duck pond south of campus. Eww! I didn’t care. After that last seen of romantic carnage, we were quickly on our way. We passed the old President’s house, which now has a nice garden with a bench we’d occupied once upon a good time. I thought to occupy it once again and end my torture there. No.

We continued down past the Maeser Building, the most iconic building on campus. I considered just sitting on the steps there and popping the question. No. I was headed for the sloping spread of lawn on the south side of the Maeser building where Janica and I had had some meaningful chats. I thought that would be it. Finally!! Peace, privacy, and love. I liked that option better than the chocolate duck pond.

Denied. Two girls who enjoyed each other’s company way too much shot out in boisterous laughter immediately as we approached. Kicking and screaming laughter. The ab work out kind. The kind of laughter you need a gym membership for. Good for them. To me, this was no laughing matter. I no longer cared about the pond. I was tired of walking. Tired of thinking. Tired of the stupid bottle in my pocket. Tired of planning. Tired of caring.. and still in love.

Last chance.

Home.

The doorstep.

A refreshing familiarity.

…Still walking hand in hand, with the bottle in my left pocket. She has perfect hands.

It was 11:30 p.m.

With the last vaporized fumes in my emotional gas tank.. here goes one last shot from the hip. It was going down. I had already made the decision early and I don’t back down. It was going down. It was going down, romantic or not. I’m not even thinking about the bottle at this point. I would just use the three ring staggered shock and awe approach, without the string ring. That’d work. The bottle stays in the left pocket. We sit on the porch…

As if on cue once more, less than 30 seconds later… random person 1 walks by… Random person 2… Person 3… Random couple… Rinse and repeat over and over. No privacy. No romance. Whimsically typical. What else could I expect? So we just sat and sat… on the porch perch.

One of Janica’s best friends and roommate then comes out of a neighboring house and makes straight for us. She is a red head. And a gleeful conversation follows. Of course she is an innocent bystander and has no clue what’s going on. I hadn’t told a soul what I was up to that night. On the bright side, Janica was probably relieved that somebody had common sense enough to talk to her like a normal human being should. I should have been sleeping in white-sheeted bed at the mental hospital.

As if irony had been the mainstay of the evening, Janica’s roommate dares to ask me in a hushed, low whisper, “Hey, you got the ring yet? When you going to ask her? Get on with it will ya!!” If she only knew…

Now, where we live is quite the social place. Three is a crowd, and when there’s a crowd, a gathering shortly commences. One of my best friends sees the crowd and comes over with his computer to rip off some free wireless internet. He sits on the porch with us three. Now we’re four.

Janica’s roommate asks him about the current financial crisis… I was doomed. This was not going to be a short conversation. He’s a financial planner for Merrill Lynch, which company just got bought by Bank of America at $29 a share. “The current financial disaster has it’s roots in the sub-prime mortgage melt down. Do you know what a sub-prime mortgage is?…” And so it goes on and on. Frustration builds to a boiling point… I just wanted one whole minute of semi-romantic privacy. I’m feeling tossed to and fro with every wave of incidental indecency. I am almost numb to it at this point.

Then out comes the entire neighborhood to play with us.

It’s not long before we’re eight, instead of four. Ten. Twelve. The bottle was still buried in my left pocket, safe and unused. My heart, after ripping itself out of my chest, fell on the ground, exhausted and abused. Each new person that joined us to chill out on our signature porch perch stepped on it, sat on it, and made it hurt.

It was over.

It was 11:45 p.m.

I take Janica inside and I say goodnight. I just wanted to hold her forever and cry on her shoulder. She had no idea what I was going through for her. I gave her a kiss goodnight. and let her slip from my grasp. She went to bed. I stashed the bottle and joined the party on the porch outside her place, though not part of me wanted to party.

Everyone was laughing, joking. I was crying inside, struggling to smile at anything. I don’t remember saying a word to anyone. I stood with my hands in my pockets, the bottle no longer there.

I wandered home.

Thoughts. Thoughts. And thinking.

I had resolved to ask Janica to marry me. A raging inferno of debate continued inside my mind and heart. My thoughts festered my heart ached. Wait… I can salvage this. What about the element of surprise? What about romance? Shock? Awe?

Ahhhh… It was perfect.

I would wait until they all went to bed. I would wait until the party dissipated.. until the porch perch was cleared of its community riffraff and we could be alone and together… finally. I would call Janica on the phone until she answered. Her phone would not be on silent. I, knowing well this girl whom I wanted for my wife, knew her phone wasn’t on silent because she uses it as an alarm every night. I would call repeatedly if need be. Yes! Repeatedly. There was no escaping me this time.

She would descend the stairs, half asleep and unawares. Upon opening the door she’d find me on the porch perch all by myself… with nobody around… on my knee… and it would go down with shock and awe. This was nothing how I’d planned it from the start.

Because… if she was on to me and suspecting sumpin was up, surely her hopes would have been dashed as I kissed her goodnight. She’d never expect me to wake her up out of a deep sleep. So that’s what I was gunna do. Bling.

I waited and waited. Thursday was drifting into Friday morning. The party slackened not. Laughing, screaming, laughing, talking. Unabated. I wandered back over to join the fray and maybe encourage a bedtime.

It was 12:15 a.m.

I’d been trying to ask Janica to marry me for the past 7 hours.

Minutes later, another friend shows up. He pops the trunk of his sweet Audi IS4 and pulls out some bedding––Pads, blankets, sleeping bag––and slaps them down on the driveway across the street from where we were. This was a familiar seen. Untimely, but familiar nonetheless. Huh? Three and a half years ago, he used to live next door to me, which is across the street from where Janica lives.

Back in those days, he and his roommates liked to sleep out front on the driveway during the summer nights. This particular night was beautiful, still about 74 degrees. A beautiful night. He’d since moved away but randomly got the itch to sleep under the stars, on the driveway of his old place. This is the only night, of which I am aware, that he’s come back to sleep on the driveway since he’d moved out three and a half years ago. He couldn’t have picked a more disastrous evening to be sleeping on the streets.

***Pause while this last shred of irony sinks in***

He would be sleeping exactly across the street from where I was to propose to Janica. There would be no privacy at any interval that night, for he would surely be privy to my public proposal on the porch perch.

What could I have done more?

It was over.

Janica was in bed. Sleeping beauty. Yet still there would be no privacy on the porch perch.

My personality kicks in again. Getrdone you pansy! I ain’t no quitter bro! I ain’t quit.. ever! As if there was some type of competitiveness within myself, against myself. Again, the same worn out thoughts still thinking themselves through the synapses in my brain. Thinking…

What about the element of surprise? What about romance? Shock? Awe?

Ahhhh… it was perfect.

The Audi.

I asked if I could use the Audi for a few minutes. With a wink, the street sleeping friend agreed to let me take it for a spin. He thought I was just going to take it for a spin. I call Janica…

Phone ringing… Ringing… Ringing…

“Huh.. Hello?” Barely a whisper.

“Hey Girl! How you doin?”

(From somewhere I was able to muster a happy voice. This was it. I knew it. There was no possible way anyone or anything was going to interfere this time. It’d be just me and her. And she wouldn’t be expecting it… shock and awe)

“I was almost asleep.”

“Get dressed and come down stairs. I wanna show you sumpin.”

Click.

A few minutes later she emerges. The party still going on. She sees me in front of her house, in the driver’s seat of the Audi, beckoning her to get in. We were going for a ride in a far sweeter car than my own. This would be a treat for sure. She would think that the reason I woke her up was to go for a joyride in the Audi IS4. It would be a joyride, just not the kind she’d be suspecting.

Now, where to go?

I sift through my mental phone book of potential romantic sites in Provo. I compromise. I just wanted flowers, wherever and whenever I could find them. I didn’t care about the place anymore.

We drive.

She’s in the passenger seat wondering if I’ll finally make my way home, to check myself in at the Utah State Mental Hospital. I’m taking corners and testing the throttle as if that’s the show for the evening. I make conversation about how bomb the car is.

I’m trixie.

We end up in the parking lot below the Y mountain trail. I park for 15 seconds. I didn’t see any flowers and I didn’t want to share the moment with a dozen other parked people.

We drive on. Fun.

I find flowers. Not where I’d thought they’d be.

It was almost perfect though. It was simple. The flowers looked like daisies, Janica’s favorite flower. In a rush of adrenaline and masculinity, I remembered my sacred romantic duty. This was it. The saga ends here.

I flip the car around and pull over… parking completely crooked. I didn’t care. It was dark, nobody around. We were finally alone and  unencumbered by mosquitoes, freshmen, or community riffraff.

We’d pulled over next to a vacant lot on an empty street.

Finally, a finality to stamp on this 8 hour escapade.

Now parked. She wonders what the heck is going on. I say one, romantic, pointed phrase in explanation.

“Get out of the car.” (I was playing for the shock and awe at this point).

Lest I forget my propriety. I end up opening the door for her…

The flowers were right there. I reach to break off a flower. As Janica watches, I struggle to break off the flower. Embarrassment anyone? The affect of the uncooperative flower in light of what I was about to do…

Finally it breaks free. She’s still looking at me wide-eyed and wonder-filled. Still wondering about my sanity. (As if this was the blandest story, to add some salt, turns out I’d subconsciously picked the ugliest, most busted, unkempt flower of the bunch.. I picture Sigmund Freud rolling over in his grave). That just warmed my heart.

With the flower clutched in my fingers, I pause and look at her. She’s beautiful. There was something about this moment that just made her more beautiful than I’d ever seen her. The street light shown down on us as if it was held in place by heaven’s angels. It was as if I was emotionally coming home after I’d been away for years at sea.

“This is for you.. [pause] Janica, what I’ve been trying to do this whole night is propose to you.”

“Are you serious?!?!?!?”

I smile. This was my time to shine y’all. I wanted to keep the question simple. I could have been wordy, but it would have killed the affect.

I take her hand. Hit the knee. And ask her using the most traditional language possible.

In response, she says just one word. A dignified, simple word.

All in one motion, I have the first of the three rings that would make up the whole ring in my hand.

In another motion, I slip it on her finger.

“Here’s to a great start.”

“It’s gorgeous.” She said.

I hold her off the ground. A simple kiss on the forehead for her.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!” She whispers into my ear. I smile to myself. Precious moment.

She would have been content with that one ring. I knew that. But again, all in one motion, I slip the engagement ring on her finger. (I got the ‘all in one motion’ thing down).

“I hope this fits on there too.”

“What???” She asks softly in disbelief.

I hold her again. Simple kiss.

All in one motion I pull out the third piece and in silence slip that one on her finger. She’s utterly speechless and almost hyperventilating at this point.

She loves the ring… She loves the ring! She loves the ring!!!

That’s what I’m talking about. A swell of pride and testosterone…

Felicitous joy. Permanent smiles… Giddy little grown up schoolchildren.

We’d been gone only 15 minutes.

It was 1:03 a.m.

For sake of this marathon story extending even longer, this is where the proposal story ends. Naturally, upon finding out the news, people freak out. There was a lot of freaking out that night. And not just by Janica and me. Back at the party scene, Janica’s sister was the first to know.. then it snowballed.

Now, at this point I’m certainly relieved, exhausted, and absolutely overjoyed. It’d been a terribly beautiful night. Waves of fluctuating emotions. The day had been difficult. I was met with frustration after frustration, stifled at every turn. Yet I continued. The end was beautiful.

After looking at the ring, which Janica loved to show off, the next question people asked was how it went down. Hmmm… I had no simple answer for that, seeing how’d I spent the last 8 hours proposing to Janica.

As I recounted the story the first time, the raw entertainment value began to sink in a
nd lacking the energy to recount the story over and over to every inquirer, here I sit, typing.

Now she got the ring bling thing.

The ‘big day’ happens on November 29th. We couldn’t be happier. Seriously.

I am in love with Janica. Period.

The end.

P.S. If you read all the way to this point, Janica and I have taken up a lot of your time. I only ask that you please take up some of our time and write a comment or two below. We’d love to hear your two cents! We’ve enjoyed so much your comments! Keep ‘em coming!!

UPDATE: Again, congratulations on making it all the way through. Go get your reward… Janica has decided to publish her side of the story. The plot thicken-izes… right here. And as always if you like this kinda of stuff you can subscribe to the RSS feed or get automatic updates via email so you won’t miss any future crazy stuff.

If I had nothing to say, I prolly wouldn’t say anything. At least nothing would come out of my mouth. Its just up to you to decide what it is I mean by the silence.

Having nothing to say, or just saying nothing, doesn’t mean that you have nothing to say, necessarily. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

Your loud silence speaks a library full of possibilities, you just don’t get to control what it is that people are assuming you are saying through the silence. Silence can be very ‘potent’.

By saying nothing at all, you leave your audience in a most awkward quandary for each is left to divine what the heck it is you mean by your ‘stinking’ silence.

Call me crazy, but I just ain’t a good diviner sometimes.

Silence could mean pretty much anything. Here’s a few ideas. Silence could meant that..

1. I’m speechless. I’d rather stare at you because the depths of your beauty are infinite and the words that I would say wouldn’t even scratch the surface.
2. The value of that which I am about to speak is not worth the time and effort associated with speaking it.
3. I am not ready to tell you what I am actually dying to tell you.
4. You are not ready to hear what I am actually dying to tell you.
5. I’m too ignorant to explain it.
6. You’re too ignorant to understand what I’m about to say.
7. The timing isn’t right.
8. The timing is too good and I’m a chicken liver.
9. I don’t have enough time.
10. I am thinking so many things that it’s a veritable impossibility to speak them all, so in silence I remain. The classic paralysis by analysis.
11. I’m just not any good with words so I’d rather you guess what the heck I’m thinking and I’ll tell you if you’re hot or cold. (A silent invitation to play 20 questions).
12. If you’re a girl, your silence is because you assume that the dude can and has read your subtle ‘signals’. He should know what you’re thinking anyways.
13. I’m boring.
14. You’re boring.
15. I’m too tired and I don’t want to talk about it.
16. You talk too much and I need a break.
17. I’ve talked for the last hour straight. It’s your turn.
18. You have something in your teeth and I’m too embarrassed to tell you.
19. This date is over.
20. I just passed some mean gas and I don’t want anyone to think it was me so I keep my mouth shut, or plug my nose and keep my mouth open so I can breathe.

It may be better to just speak up and say it was you

The silence raises a lot of questions doesn’t it? Makes a body wonder what is meant by the silence. Even through the silence you can almost hear the neurons at work in that thought factory thinking up stuff.

By not saying anything at all, you’re saying a whole lot.

Bling.

Electric blenders are mysteriously cool and supremely advantageous and somewhat necessary in order to live a convenient life full of convenience and smoothies. (My sister has one of them Vitamix deals that are just really unreal).

With a blender, almost unlike any other machine known to mankind, random unkempt stuff that seems like it shouldn’t go together, just does somehow.. in a smooth kind of way.

All you do is throw a bunch of produce, or fruit. or junk food or healthy food or gourmet food or last month’s leftovers or all of the above in to the pitcher thingy with the sharp twirly thingies attached to the bottom of it, throw the plastic/rubber lid thingy on top, and hit the GO button. Then you just let it go.. and it does its thang.

(The mildly disruptive part of smoothie making) After you hit the GO button, you just might need to hold your hands over your ears and do all you can to make it through the deafening 100db noise without pulling your hair out in convulsive spasms. You’ll be rewarded if you do. (If you have a Vitamix though, the thing just purrs even when it’s blending up blatant nastiness).

Seconds later, the good part. de-lid the thingy and pour the pure n tasty smoothie-ness into your smoothie catcher cup. The whole deal is vaguely miraculous. Imagine.. ungood food can come out good all of a sudden, as if it was always meant to be good.. even vegetables. Because let’s be honest, the foods’ true identity had just been hidden under an unblended shield ever since I was a kid. (My mom wishes she had known the secret) Bummer, now the secret’s out.

So where’s the miracle?

This is what’s miraculous: You can throw rough stuff and hard stuff and wet stuff and dry stuff in the same blend and they’ll all come out smooth (I’m assuming that you and I are both thinking about biodegradable stuff.. you know, like food, not rocks).

What does this have to do with life? Check this out. We all of a “blender of life” so to speak. Life is full of ungood stuff (and of course good stuff too, but let me prove a point). You know, the kind of stuff that just hurts the mind, body, and soul. Emotional, physical, spiritual rough stuff that just needs to be smoothie-fied or just blended somehow… if it were possible… at the “bearable” speed. Life gets hard sometimes.

Here’s the punch line: Zoom out. Luckily we have a Master Blender who has an eternal-sized magic blending machine that has the ability to make EVERYTHING smooth again, even though the “everything’s” roughness would seem overbearing or insurmountable or permanent. With the touch of the Master Blender, somehow, our life, as rough and as tough and complicated as it may seem, can all come out happily smooth again… that’s a miracle of astronomic proportions.

At times, I’ve felt like I’ve put all the wrong ingredients in my own “blender of life.” But somehow, with the touch of the Master Blender, I’ve come out with beauty abounding and smoothie-ness all around.

The inspiration for this post: After years of butchering bachelorhood… finally getting the right consistency.

Bling.

I believe that you cannot capture true beauty with words. For if you did, the encased would hardly fit the encasement. Moreover, silence would most assuredly serve more soundly.

The kind of beauty I’m referencing isn’t the kind you’ll see in a pageant, on MTV or E! or Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous or Pimp My Ride. The kind of beauty I’m talking about flies past reason and rhyme and riches and builds it’s own beauty-filled bridge across bottomless fissures or chasms of what we can call the mundane–landing itself on the far side while leaving eyewitnesses with just a feeling of jaw-dropping and bone-chilling awe.

This is the beauty that surpasses all understanding. Such beauty can therefore only give birth to feelings, not words at all. This beauty is described by loud silence or by residue feelings of wonderment.

I saw just this kind of beauty two nights ago.

A couple weeks ago I was in Indiana on business. The week went by quickly as almost every minute of every day and half the night was demanded of us. Late Thursday we were driving through South Bend on I-80 in route to Chicago to catch a red-eye out of O’Hare the next morning. We stopped for some refreshment at the fabled Taco Bell just off Michigan Avenue.

We were both aching for food as we hadn’t had time to eat anything since an early lunch, it was nearly midnight. Just minutes after we received our food, and having the window still rolled down, we were approached by a homeless man.

I have had some experience with the homeless—and I haven’t been as brotherly kind as I ought to have been. I have given of my substance and have left them wanting. I’ve struggled in the past to decide which is appropriate. Do they really need the money? Are they professional beggars? What will they do with the money? Are they really homeless? This one experience helped clarify my confusion. I will leave you to decide for yourself, given the impact, for whatever its worth, of this story.

When approached by homeless, I typically acknowledge their plight and move on without much more than a thought or two. Knowing the great effect eye contact has in creating persuasion, I would try and avoid eye contact altogether. If you look them in the eye, they can catch your attention just long enough to set into their spiel wherein they create an awkward sense of obligation that makes you offer a compensation of some sort. Those on the streets of New York are particularly keen at this.

In the parking lot of Taco Bell, we were approached by a homeless man we later came to know as Willy. He looked much more kempt than most and had a smile on his face. Willy was different, and we quickly came to know just how different he was. His attitude caught me off guard, and succeeded in catching my enough of my attention that I caught his eyes. I said “hi” to Willy with half a soft taco in my mouth—which action was signal enough to encourage him to start his employment.

The painful truth is that my first reaction was to roll my eyes, inwardly, and continue eating my food in front of him, almost as if I invalidated his very existence and didn’t have time to care.

All feeling and empathy in my heart fell head-long into a pile of shame; because for the next 20 minutes we listened to Willy deliver a supremely persuasive and deeply moving speech that could rival Lincoln’s second inaugural address. I ate my thoughts and my initial reaction for dinner and ended up giving him the rest of my soft taco aliment. I couldn’t imagine a more effectually efficient speech, and coming from such an unanticipated source no less. Being familiar with some principles of persuasion and having crafted persuasive speeches myself, I was absolutely dumbfounded at the impact his little ditty made on me. Both my partner and I were literally moved to tears.

He told his story of financial ruin and how anybody’s financial house of cards can be easily and unexpectedly blown to the ground with random gusts of unforeseen wind. He had family in Houston that was well off, but the shame of sharing his dire circumstance has kept him from contacting them. He’d been injured, laid off and now homeless in a matter of three short months… and he’s still injured because he can’t get proper care.

Willy was eloquent. He was real and grammatically correct—even politically correct. He was sincere and obviously educated. His dress was relatively clean and his teeth were white. He was a common stouthearted man fallen upon hard times and there was nothing typical about him.

As he finished, we tried desperately to hide our emotions. That was awkward as there was nowhere to hide them. We got out of the car, talked to Willy, shook his hand, and gave him encouragement along with every last scrap of the gourmet food we had extracted from Taco Bell. He gratefully accepted the food with an even more indebted-like Willy smile. We then took a few minutes and crossed the street to pull some money out of an ATM. By the time we had returned, he had eaten as much of the food as he was going to and saved the rest for his wife who was cooped up in a women’s shelter. We committed Willy to sweep the parking lot at a nearby church, just as he had done many times before for just $4. Our monetary gift was prepayment and deservedly more.

Ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the beggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.” (Mosiah 4:16)

Now, I may never know what truth or error was spoken in Willy’s speech or what his reality really was. I may never know if you actually swept that parking lot or not. And verily that’s not the point here. What I can know is that a needy man, who sought for understanding from a man who wouldn’t normally offer understanding, got it loud and clear. My once cold heart turned lukewarm. I understood Willy.

There may be fastidiously irrelevant ethics or politics involved in situations like these, but that’s not the point here either. We can be a little more understanding, a little more caring, a little more like Christ. I can give more than just my substance. I can give my understanding and my care, and “not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver.” (2 Cor. 9:7)

Willy is someone’s son, someone’s father, someone’s brother. But above all, he is a child of God, just like you and me. What can we cheerfully give?

Think upon that and interpret as you may.

Bling.

Though it was the Colony’s first encounter with a newly reinforced and refreshed opposition, Washington’s expectations were never sullied. And though he always demanded his troops’ best, he was not a perfectionist because he understood what his best was—having had extensive wartime experience—and how his best differed from the best of his troops.

At the same time, he did what most perfectionists can’t. He understood that what his novice army had to give may not be up to par with his own personal best. At New York in the fall of 1776, he knew his men had given their best. That is a victory. Their best amounted to a loss on paper, but a success over all. For many, they now had a starting point from which to measure their future successes and their future expectations. They knew what they were up against. They knew the competition.

What’s beautiful to the unperfectionist in this representation is that an untrained, makeshift army faced overwhelmingly stout odds with unfettered courage—without knowing what their best really was. They didn’t know their potential. Most men of the Revolution had never fought before, yet they fought and they fought with their lives. The loss at New York was a learning experience. The opposition had been reorganized and reinforced with over 12,000 trained, uniformed soldiers—no doubt an unsettling and fearsome sight to the untrained and largely un-uniformed glorified militia. This demanded that the revolutionists raise the bar… and they did.

This devastating loss could have crushed the revolution. The colonists had lost their New York City stronghold which was the heart of their operation. Washington lost over 5,000 men to death and imprisonment. He was chased from New York, through New Jersey, and across the Delaware with scant supplies, weary soldiers, and freezing temperatures. It was then that Thomas Paine wrote his most famous line “These are the times that try men’s souls.” Those are the times that demand one’s best.

Despite the loss, somehow, Washington succeeded in rallying his band to perform at such a high level that it would seem beyond their capacities. A stealthy Christmas Day crossing of the Delaware River into New Jersey overtook their opposition and regained lost ground by out maneuvering and overpowering an organized, uniformed opposition—albeit a host of 12,000 or more.

In essence, George Washington was able to incrementally increase his troops’ output by helping them realize their potential and understand what they were capable of giving, while maintaining their expectations. He encouraged and prodded his men to continue on, to not give up, to forge ahead, to give, to do what they could. That was their best.

Now Ask Yourself…

Ye all perfectionists… with this story on your mind try this perplexing thought on for size: What is your best? And pause to think…

Or perhaps try it this way: Did those who crossed the Delaware that awesome night know they were giving their best while they were giving it? How do you know you’re doing your best while doing it? What does your best look like? What does it feel like?

At the Battle of Brooklyn, a raw and biting loss, did the men that fought there give their best? How could they know… seeing how most had never fought before? How can you know your best if you’ve never “fought” before? How could they know that they were even capable of winning back their lost territory by forging a river in the middle of the night to fight an army four times the size of their own? The men at Brooklyn were willing to give their lives for a cause. For some, that’s all they had to give. They gave and kept giving. That was enough. That was their best.

Sometimes we perfectionists get caught up in measuring ourselves against others’ achievements whilst in the heat of the battle, per se. That hesitation and indecision will kill you dead in battle every time. So don’t even go there dude. You can’t know your best in the midst of battle, just fight.

Manage Your Expectation

This applied principle serves to show the brilliance of George Washington. He did not demand that his troops achieve results equal to what his own would have been had he fought at the front lines with the infantries. He understood incremental, yet steady progression. He did demand that each man give his best—whatever that best was it didn’t matter—and rely on God for resolution. He knew they were finally capable of a heroic retaliation.

Like with Washington’s men, whatever your best is, understand that your best is completely yours. Your best is not the best of someone else. Your best is not your neighbors. It’s not your bosses, or brother’s or sister’s, or pastor’s, or teacher’s, or evangelist’s, or so forth’s. Your best is not the best of Hollywood’s finest. Your best is not the captain of the football team’s best. Your best may not be the best of the valedictorian’s… it may be better. Your best is yours. And you are the only one that can dictate what your best is. Create your best and then recreate it.

That said, or written, sometimes in life it becomes our turn to courageously do things we’ve never done before—to expand the reaches of personal accomplishment to include higher and higher levels of difficulty and achievement. Still, at other times, we are left to claw, crawl, and slurp through harsher and harsher realities that make basic survival the end goal and focus. In these difficult or harsher times, as in most times, we can’t know what our best is in foresight because our best is most often found in uncharted territory—like the heretofore unheard of surreptitious Christmas day crossing of the Delaware. There are few things in life that we cannot try, try again to achieve increasingly better results as our best builds on our previous best.

Yet still, sometimes we can only give, or only do. Sometimes we can only survive, or just make it through. If you keep moving and doing and making it through, perhaps in hindsight you will realize that what you gave and what you did and the way you made it through, no matter the quantity of giving or the outcome, was in fact your very best. Then you can do what most perfectionists can’t and smile wide and long to yourself, knowing that you’ve given your best. Then next time, set your previous best as your expectation and work to beat that mark.

Know that whatever amount your best is, you can’t know it while staring it in the face. Accomplish first, as you may, and then look at what you’ve accomplished. That is your best today. Your best is not found in the accomplishing but in the post-satisfaction of accomplishment.

In a basketball game I scored 56 points. I had a triple double. Our team won the game. As the mini-celebration commenced afterwards, I went off by myself to sulk. What? Typical perfectionist behavior. To the congratulations that I was offered, I would respond, “Yeah, I can’t believe I missed that last shot though.” My thoughts were not upon jubilation and merriment. I found myself focusing on the open shot I missed in the closing seconds of the game as if that one miss deemed my entire performance a catastrophic failure. I could not see the overall success because I was focused entirely upon one small mishappenstance (my word). I was a perfectionist who was entirely unfamiliar with my best. Looking back, I couldn’t have played any better. That was my best and I couldn’t see it for what it was. Don’t be like that. That is so un-Washington-like and ridiculous.

Be steady, work hard, keep working, keep moving, and just make it through. Do that and you’ll find, like Washington’s brazened hosts, that the yesterday’s best makes the outlook of tomorrow’s best a happy thought that fosters anticipation, excitement, and content without the perfectionist’s paralyzing dread.

Bling.

If it is tomorrow, that would by default deem the first six years of my life as the necessary encasement of any applicable quarter-life crises. Luckily, I didn’t care for much more than He-Man underwear, soccer balls, and a naked Ken doll back then (Hey, my sisters wouldn’t let me play with them unless I had one).

What could have been my quarter-life crisis back then? It might have something to do with my dad’s literal use of “Labor Day” or Santa’s bad habit of favoring the other kids at Lea Hill Elementary and not me.

Yeah, if you didn’t watch the news last night, as of today, I’m every bit of 26 years, 3 months, and 6 days old. Okay, the news last night has nothing to do with it. Point is, I’m 26 and though I mentioned quarter-life crisis, I have no intention of actually living until I’m 105 years and 24 days old (though my Great Grandpa is nearly 102 and doing just fine). Crisis or not, linear timing really has nothing to do with the crisis itself does it?

That aside.. most “quarter-life crises” have to do with selecting a profession of permanence and value.

Why does anyone care what he or she wants to do with themselves? Does it matter aside from the basic free market principles of marketplace specialization and the “Invisible Hand” (Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nation economic stuff—yeah, I remember a bit from Econ 110)? What does it matter to you?

###Of course I have my own ideas and convictions but I’m really curious as to what you think###

Talk amongst yourselves.

Or, a much better alternative, if there’s any of y’all out there who would like to salt the tip jar a bit, post your comments below. Just click on the “Add a Comment” link at the bottom of the post or if there are already a number of comments click on “n Comments.” The page will reload a bit and a place for you to enter your comment or “Say Your Peace” as I like to put it, will make itself available.

Bling.

Being that Rusty has given me the green light to be superficial I might talk about myself a little bit here. It’s true. I’ve hit a golf ball over 400 yards numerous times with many witnesses (but never with a 3 wood, sorry Rusty). In some sense that puts me in an elite club. I don’t know what that “club” should or would be, but if there was one that had anything to do with hitting a golf ball 400 yards I might qualify by a few yards.

My brief golfing history: I hit my first 300 yard drive when I was 14 years old with a 3-wood on Fore Lakes Golf Course in West Valley City, Utah (not much of a course, just a little 9 hole executive). I made my first birdie on that same hole. I started golfing with a used set of clubs my uncle had given me. It’s been a little while since then. I’m much bigger now or taller at least with a little bit longer and a somewhat shinier clubs that are more explicitly functional (Mizuno MP30’s 2-PW, X-stiff Dynamic Gold +2 steel shafts, bent 3 degrees upright). I’ve never had a lesson in my life, but since high school I’ve somehow been able to flirt with scratch golf (I did more flirting in high school…) and I’ve won every long drive contest in every tournament I’ve been in outside of collegiate or prep sports. (If you don’t know what “scratch” is then don’t worry about it).

Nobody in my family really plays much golf, except my uncle, so I don’t know to whom I can attribute my golf mediocrity other than Tiger Woods himself. (No, he’s not on my speed dial but I got close enough to him one time that I could have punched him in the face had I wanted to). As A kid I would record every single tournament he played in the was broadcast on national television to watch it over and over through out the following week. Thus, I’m very much self-taught, or I just did what Tiger did. So this post is as unprofessional as is my golf.

PAUSE: I better watch it. This golf subject is way too enjoyable for me and I know way too much about way too much meaningless golf stuff. I can talk about golf for hours or days even, which would mean I can write about it for even longer. Straight to the point…

3 Critical Points to Hitting a Golf Ball 400 Yards

DISCLAIMER: I have two things to my advantage. First, I’m coordinated. Second, I’m 6’10”. Most of you have the former, but not the letter. The latter gives me all the advantage in the world to hit a golf ball 400 yards, if I have the former. (Being tall plays a different role when you actually try to score well in golf, in that sense it’s better to be a lot a bit shorter).

A golf club is a lever and you know what Archimedes said about levers and fulcrums, “Give me lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it and I shall move the world.” Yeah, I’ve got long… fulcrums and levers and stuff. So don’t you worry about what you can’t control, just do these three things and you’ll perform just fine.

Critical point number one: Forget everything that has anything to do with Happy Gilmore as it refers to golf. The movie is good entertainment sure, but it has given people an incrdibly false perception about golf in more ways than just how to hit a golf ball 400 yards. From a golfer’s viewpoint, from my viewpoint, the show is a disgrace to the game of golf, but albeit entertaining.

Always remember this: it is mechanically impossible for someone to hit a golf ball 440 yards swinging like Happy Gilmore. It’s not going to happen. You may think that “swinging harder” will make the ball go farther, but in golf, that’s just not the case. You can’t run up to a ball and swing as hard as you can and make the ball go any further. Don’t think so? Try me, I’ll give you a driver and I’ll take my 7 iron and I’ll out drive you by 50 yards. I only hit my 7 iron 205-207 yards. Distance is not about swinging hard, it’s about a lot of things that have nothing to do with swinging hard. Hitting the ball is mostly about proper timing and synchronization of your hips and shoulders. Almost as important are your stance, grip, ball position, and ball striking. None of those have anything to do with swinging hard. If you’ve ever seen Ernie Els hit a golf ball you’ll know why he’s called the Big Easy. He’s one of the longest drivers on the PGA tour. Check this…

Critical point number two: Tee the ball up higher and don’t rest your club on the ground prior to takeaway and place the ball all the way forward in your stance. This is critical. I use 3” tees (must be white and wooden). Don’t be afraid to tee it up and rip it. The top of the club face should hit the ball right at its equator. Beginners don’t tee the ball up high enough and when they do they’ll pop it straight up in the air because they rest their club on the ground before they swing and flub it.
Most people rest their driver on the ground prior to takeaway and skim the surface of the grass during the backswing. I got news for you. Your brain is accurate enough to help your muscles create a specific muscle memory point. Your downswing will likely return to that point, nip the grass (or plow it), and hit the clubface way above the sweet spot instead of right smack in the middle of it. The result is a weak shot. Don’t do that. Hover the club barely above the grass at setup, tee the ball up accordingly.

The reason why you must place the ball all the way forward in your stance (straight off your big toe) is because you want your driver to do what it’s meant to do. That may sound stupid, but it’s true. Your swing with your driver is different than with 3 woods from the turf, utility clubs, irons, wedges and putters. Your swing is shallow and wide; more “oval” than any other shot. . The impact point with the driver should be just before the club begins to ascend. The impact point with all other clubs, except a 3 wood off the tee, is descending. Just get used to teeing the ball forward and swinging wide and shallow.

Okay, that was three points, lucky you.

Critical point number three: For me, this one factor has made all the difference and has turned my mediocrity into superhuman strength. Have girl problems. I’ve hit my longest drives while releasing large amounts of dating and relationship stress in the form of focused adrenaline. Just get it all out man… and let it go. Just let it go. For those of you who don’t have girl problems, I’m sorry, but 400 yards is a bit far without that superhuman edge.

All in all, it should look like something like this. I even give you two swings for the price of one. (This shot is with a standard 45″ Titleist 905R with a Fujikura Speeder shaft).

Bling.

WARNING: use the principle you are about to learn at your own discretion, it’s entirely possible that results may vary, and I hereby expunge myself from any and all liabilities occasioned by any negative ones (you shouldn’t get negative results unless you drastically goof something up. So don’t goof something up, a’ight?).

One of my favorite principles of persuasion to teach clients is how to get by giving. For those geeks out there who actually care about technical terms, we call this principle the Law of Obligation. Obligation is a scary word for some people; it shouldn’t be, at least in the context you’re about to learn. Obligation can literally be the ace up your sleeve in life or business or in getting your kids to eat their broccoli. It’s an easy and harmless way to generate goodwill, commitment, and relationships out of thin air.

Real life example. One afternoon, while grabbing lunch at my current favorite restaurant (Bajio’s—best Mexican food in the west, check it out and tell ‘em I sent you), I stood in line next to a medium-height, goateed up, well-dressed man with a fancy Blackberry and a Jawbone in his ear. It was lunch hour so naturally the restaurant was full to the gills with people and businessmen. The man was having a conversation about a piece of real estate. Hmmm… I like real estate. He ended his conversation just as he was about to order. In two minutes I was able to get to know this man and have him like me enough to offer me free business. How? I used the Law of Obligation.

After the man ordered his meal, a Flauta Bajio, he was given two simple options—“is this to go or to stay?” He was apparently set on staying… (Tisk, tisk, choosing to stay or to go at this restaurant means the difference between a full meal and a large snack). I always get my food to go at Bajio’s. As soon as he offered his reply, I leaned forward and whispered, “That’s a great choice. You must be hungry.” Very. “Great. Wanna know how to double your rations for the same price?” What? You can do that? “Yup, if you get your food to go you’ll get almost twice as much. Watch…” He watched as they dished out servings to others who were going and staying. He watched as I got the same meal, but to go, and ended up with almost twice the ingredients on top. A smile came across his face and I winked at him. “Next time you’re going to want to get your food to go aren’t ya? You get more for your buck.” We exchanged business cards and a few laughs. We chatted a bit and he offered me a complimentary window service for free. Turns out he owned a window and glass company.

What happened here? I gave to get. Because I let the man in on my little secret, he felt subconsciously obligated to build an acquaintance and offer me something in return—in this case, a free window service and maybe some future real estate dealings. Giving to get? Yeah, it is that simple.

People have been using the Law of Obligation as a persuasive technique almost since the beginning of time. How many times have you been offered free brushes, encyclopedias, estimates, CDs, DVDs, car services, special reports, or even Hare Krishna flowers? All are given in the hopes that you will give in to your subconscious inclination to reciprocate. At the same time, it’s important that you don’t give for the sole purpose of getting. That could be manipulative. If you make that your sole purpose, the person you are trying to persuade will subconsciously pick up on it, be disgusted, and turn away. If your intentions are 100% to get, you’ll more than likely give your intentions away in your nonverbal communication. Make your major purpose be one of goodwill and service and you’ll be surprised what you get in return.

Have you ever baked cookies for the neighbors? What did they do to reciprocate? Have you ever raked the neighbor’s lawn or taken out the trash? What was the reciprocation? Or how about this: Tupperware parties. News flash: people actually throw these silly parties for the sole purpose of selling you stuff, not to hang out, or not even because they like you. They serve refreshments and give away free Tupperware or other products. Well guess what? We all know how hard it is to attend a friend’s party, eat their food, take their free gifts, and then go home without buying a single thing. We almost can’t do it and it’s so uncomfortable. Why? Obligation. To get rid of the cognitive dissonance, the subconscious psychological pressure, we order the cheapest item in the catalog. Only then do we finally feel at peace and overcome our feeling of indebtedness to the host… and we go home psychologically appeased with a useless purchase to boot.

Here’s an even better classic example. I’m sure you can relate with this one. You need a car and instead of buying one online at carsmart.com or cars.com, you brave the storm of ancient terrible salesmanship and decide to hit one of the 787 local lots. At length, you’ve negotiated back and forth with the knucklehead salesman and are getting nowhere (his being obstinate makes you want the car even more). Just as you are about to walk away he pulls out the cliché, “You know what, let me go and run this by my manager to see what we can do.” As he gets up, he says, “Hey, I’m thirsty. I’m going to grab a drink, you want one?” Yeah! Sure! Thanks so much! You say, being completely oblivious to his ridiculous tactic. He comes back with the soda and… umm… guess what else? Yup, an even better deal from his manager—a seemingly unbeatable deal. It’s not quite the deal you wanted, but for some weird, indescribable reason you feel okay with it—you feel it’s the best deal you’re going to get. So, you’re quick to accept it.

Logically, why would you EVER buy a car that wasn’t the right deal? You did. The salesdude got you with the Law of Obligation. He had you emotionally wrapped up and he knew it. He offered you a $.50 can of soda and you bought a $30,000 vehicle. Fair? No. Your fault? Yes. That can of soda created a subconscious sense of debt or obligation that you felt you needed to overcome by offering goodwill in return—i.e., buying a vehicle you didn’t want. The moral of this story is to never accept free stuff from salespersons before you’ve settled on a price. (And then after you’ve settled on a price, and taken the free soda, don’t let your guard down because he’ll sell you on three levels of insurance and warranties).

SUMMARY: give something to get. It works. Just don’t be a manipulative jerk about it, and use it to make the world a better place.

I wrote and published the post quickly and without thinking deeply about what the heck I had written. Something didn’t sit quite right with me. I went back and read it. Discovered what it was. Went looking for some answers. Found them from unexpected sources. After thinking and mulling all day, I came back and fixed my folly. I went through a poignant and progressive learning experience while writing this silly blog that only me, my mom, and Rusty reads.

And what I ended up with is a perfectly clear understanding, for which I am grateful. For umpteen billion years I’ve put undue pressure on myself to find what I love to do, what I’m passionate about, and found my life’s work upon whatever that passion turned out to be—and I would accept nothing short of that perfection. I had failed to even allow for the possibility that maybe my passions, or whatever I enjoy the most in life, are not solely employed in the marketplace.. that maybe I can pursue excellence in a menial career that I at least enjoy enough to pursue excellence in… and seek my life’s work and fulfillment elsewhere, outside of a humdrum career.. in more personally fulfilling environments.

Here it is straight (my aha moment): So what if a guy can’t find a job or career he enjoys? Tough two lips. Reality is that a dude has to provide for his family anyways. Therein lives his manhood, the fulfillment of a sacred calling and commandment from God. Regardless of whether or not he’s passionate about his career, more importantly, his career is the livelihood of his loved ones.

In utter amazement, I confess that this fleeting matter of flitting away life in search of the perfect, passion-filled career, turned out to be just this simple: If no passions at all can be found in the workplace, then find something that at least you do well and learn to enjoy it. Have a good attitude, buckle down, strap in, work hard, be steady, and make sure you give yourself time to pursue fulfillment in the form of healthy passions, whatever and wherever they turn out to be. If you find your life’s passion and fulfillment in your workplace, pin a rose on your nose. I’m just talking out loud here. Bling.