After making the wise decision to include Carly in shopping for the engagement ring she'll be wearing for the rest of her life, I wanted to make my proposal an event she'd remember for the rest of her life.
And I wanted it to look cool on YouTube.
Hundreds of videos litter YouTube with surprise engagements, featuring flash mobs (I dare you to find one less than four excruciating minutes), cornball on-air proposals for news personalities (although Ahmad Rashad asking for Claire Huxtable's hand in marriage is touching) and acts that defy gravity and maybe even intelligence.
(Google "best proposal ever" and look for the guy diving off a fourth-story ledge to an inflated mat below.
) I'm sorry, Carly, I love you, but I don't know anyone with a crash mat or access to a roof.
I've always considered myself a word guy, and I think that's why I've always liked the idea of writing out important messages in unique ways.
Skywriting, movie marquees, hell, even a Lite Brite; my mind was set to spell out my proposal to Carly in some dramatic way.
Let me dial the story back just a little: If you can't surprise someone with a gift, surprise them with how you give it to them, and, if you can, surprise them with when you give it to them.
Carly knew her ring was coming: I'd already asked her to shop for it with me, and I have a horrible pokerface when it comes to things like inevitable marriage proposals.
We'd also talked about certain dates or holidays that might give away the secret: Thanksgiving, Christmas and other family functions; New Year's Eve (although we fully support certain 1/1 proposals) and other party dates; even her birthday, which is meant for chocolates and massages, not life-changing decisions.
Fellas: They'll never suspect you'll ask on your own birthday.
We shopped for rings in September, I put the down payment on her diamond and band in October, and I hid the ring in our roommate's closet until Nov.
4.
From purchasing the ring to popping the question, I had four weeks to get this proposal right.
I originally had the wild idea of spelling "WILL YOU MARRY ME?" on the roof of my work place in humongous letters that could be seen from three blocks away, specifically from Centro, the restaurant I asked Carly to take me to for my birthday dinner.
As I mentioned in the stair-climb challenge post, I work on the 13th floor of a 13-story building.
You'd think that would mean I'd have a means to get on the roof, but it doesn't (and that's probably a good thing, as I'll be needing to tan leading up to the wedding).
Before I ever once spoke my idea out loud, I realized the ridiculous logistics to making this work would be impossible to tackle.
So I moved my idea inside, asking one of my co-workers, the visual, musical and creative Brent Boyd, what he thought it would take to build letters big enough to fit inside our office windows and opaque enough to show up in the backlight of our fluorescent wonderland in the dusk of dinnertime light.
"You know, you'll need to make sure those lights stay turned on," Brent said.
"And get, like, 10 people on the same page.
And get the letters made.
And be up here at 6 p.
m.
to install the letters.
And...
and...
" And this was a bad idea.
However, Brent had my back.
My warm sentiment was enough to melt his cold, rock-star heart, and he surprised me as he sent me YouTube link after YouTube link of proposal ideas.
I hadn't lost faith that I could write out my question in a unique and meaningful way.
I just needed to figure out what the meaning was.
Then one day on my way to work, I saw this guy: The Nomade, a piece of artwork in downtown Des Moines' Pappajohn Sculpture Park (Google it), is a Konecny-Nelson favorite; we bring out-of-towners to the landmark on every first visit, and we've taken a number of pictures underneath the big guy's bent knees.
I have one of those pictures at my desk, and looking at it after I arrived at work one October morning must have caused something to click.
Together, Brent and I concocted our plan: I would find wooden letters similar to those that make up the Nomade's structure, I would purchase a plank of plexiglass, and Brent would bring his hot glue gun to...
some place that's totally not work to build the sign for me.
Thanks, Brent! After telling my teammates I intended to take my birthday off work to pull off my plan, co-worker Carey Callaway offered her help in taking this 4-foot-by-4-foot sign five blocks from our office to the sculpture park.
Carly had already met Carey, so it was important that Carey head for the hills upon our approach.
Carly, however, had not yet met Brent, which allowed him to hide in plain sight and videotape the whole thing.
So, here was the game plan: Days in advance: Ask Carly to take me out to dinner at Centro, call for 6 p.
m.
reservations.
1 day in advance: Help Brent lay out the letters for this sign.
4 p.
m.
Nov.
4: Text Carey to make sure Operation Love It or Leave It was a go.
5 p.
m.
Nov.
4: Suggest to Carly that we take our standard walk through the sculpture park.
5:15 p.
m.
: Leave the apartment.
5:29 p.
m.
: Text Carey to tell her we're one minute away.
5:30 p.
m.
: Park half a block away and walk toward the sculpture.
5:31 p.
m.
: Angle Carly so she can't help but see the sign, jammed inside the letter man.
5:32 p.
m.
: Everybody gets teary-eyed.
Obviously she said yes, and we spent the rest of my birthday night on the phone with friends and family, then meeting up with people to celebrate and perform Operation Get Eric Drunk.
(That operation worked, too.
) The best part of all, though, besides Carly saying she'd marry me, was that she never saw it coming.
I genuinely surprised her, and it even looks great on YouTube.
Check, and check.
And I wanted it to look cool on YouTube.
Hundreds of videos litter YouTube with surprise engagements, featuring flash mobs (I dare you to find one less than four excruciating minutes), cornball on-air proposals for news personalities (although Ahmad Rashad asking for Claire Huxtable's hand in marriage is touching) and acts that defy gravity and maybe even intelligence.
(Google "best proposal ever" and look for the guy diving off a fourth-story ledge to an inflated mat below.
) I'm sorry, Carly, I love you, but I don't know anyone with a crash mat or access to a roof.
I've always considered myself a word guy, and I think that's why I've always liked the idea of writing out important messages in unique ways.
Skywriting, movie marquees, hell, even a Lite Brite; my mind was set to spell out my proposal to Carly in some dramatic way.
Let me dial the story back just a little: If you can't surprise someone with a gift, surprise them with how you give it to them, and, if you can, surprise them with when you give it to them.
Carly knew her ring was coming: I'd already asked her to shop for it with me, and I have a horrible pokerface when it comes to things like inevitable marriage proposals.
We'd also talked about certain dates or holidays that might give away the secret: Thanksgiving, Christmas and other family functions; New Year's Eve (although we fully support certain 1/1 proposals) and other party dates; even her birthday, which is meant for chocolates and massages, not life-changing decisions.
Fellas: They'll never suspect you'll ask on your own birthday.
We shopped for rings in September, I put the down payment on her diamond and band in October, and I hid the ring in our roommate's closet until Nov.
4.
From purchasing the ring to popping the question, I had four weeks to get this proposal right.
I originally had the wild idea of spelling "WILL YOU MARRY ME?" on the roof of my work place in humongous letters that could be seen from three blocks away, specifically from Centro, the restaurant I asked Carly to take me to for my birthday dinner.
As I mentioned in the stair-climb challenge post, I work on the 13th floor of a 13-story building.
You'd think that would mean I'd have a means to get on the roof, but it doesn't (and that's probably a good thing, as I'll be needing to tan leading up to the wedding).
Before I ever once spoke my idea out loud, I realized the ridiculous logistics to making this work would be impossible to tackle.
So I moved my idea inside, asking one of my co-workers, the visual, musical and creative Brent Boyd, what he thought it would take to build letters big enough to fit inside our office windows and opaque enough to show up in the backlight of our fluorescent wonderland in the dusk of dinnertime light.
"You know, you'll need to make sure those lights stay turned on," Brent said.
"And get, like, 10 people on the same page.
And get the letters made.
And be up here at 6 p.
m.
to install the letters.
And...
and...
" And this was a bad idea.
However, Brent had my back.
My warm sentiment was enough to melt his cold, rock-star heart, and he surprised me as he sent me YouTube link after YouTube link of proposal ideas.
I hadn't lost faith that I could write out my question in a unique and meaningful way.
I just needed to figure out what the meaning was.
Then one day on my way to work, I saw this guy: The Nomade, a piece of artwork in downtown Des Moines' Pappajohn Sculpture Park (Google it), is a Konecny-Nelson favorite; we bring out-of-towners to the landmark on every first visit, and we've taken a number of pictures underneath the big guy's bent knees.
I have one of those pictures at my desk, and looking at it after I arrived at work one October morning must have caused something to click.
Together, Brent and I concocted our plan: I would find wooden letters similar to those that make up the Nomade's structure, I would purchase a plank of plexiglass, and Brent would bring his hot glue gun to...
some place that's totally not work to build the sign for me.
Thanks, Brent! After telling my teammates I intended to take my birthday off work to pull off my plan, co-worker Carey Callaway offered her help in taking this 4-foot-by-4-foot sign five blocks from our office to the sculpture park.
Carly had already met Carey, so it was important that Carey head for the hills upon our approach.
Carly, however, had not yet met Brent, which allowed him to hide in plain sight and videotape the whole thing.
So, here was the game plan: Days in advance: Ask Carly to take me out to dinner at Centro, call for 6 p.
m.
reservations.
1 day in advance: Help Brent lay out the letters for this sign.
4 p.
m.
Nov.
4: Text Carey to make sure Operation Love It or Leave It was a go.
5 p.
m.
Nov.
4: Suggest to Carly that we take our standard walk through the sculpture park.
5:15 p.
m.
: Leave the apartment.
5:29 p.
m.
: Text Carey to tell her we're one minute away.
5:30 p.
m.
: Park half a block away and walk toward the sculpture.
5:31 p.
m.
: Angle Carly so she can't help but see the sign, jammed inside the letter man.
5:32 p.
m.
: Everybody gets teary-eyed.
Obviously she said yes, and we spent the rest of my birthday night on the phone with friends and family, then meeting up with people to celebrate and perform Operation Get Eric Drunk.
(That operation worked, too.
) The best part of all, though, besides Carly saying she'd marry me, was that she never saw it coming.
I genuinely surprised her, and it even looks great on YouTube.
Check, and check.
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