Scruffy Murphy’s. A dive bar with dim lighting, walls graffitied with Sharpie, and a moat in the men’s bathroom. You either love or hate it, with no in between. After a long wait in line, I was finally in. I could feel the bass thumping through my shoes. Pushing past the crowds, I made it to the bar. Around the U-shaped counter were dozens of college kids. I looked around at each of them, my eyes finally stopping at the person on my right. She was tall and blonde, wearing black clothing. And she was beautiful. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Russell Brand?” she asked me. I thought for a second, surely I had misheard her? At the time, I had this semi-long, shag mullet thing going, but I looked nothing like Russell Brand. “No, I’ve never heard that one before,” I said with a chuckle. And so it began. We chatted for a few moments, telling each other our names (first and last, as was apparently common and courteous at the worst dive bar in Waco) and majors (what are we, freshman at a frat party?). As it turned out, we actually knew some of the same people. Just as I was about to ask for her number, she did it for me, like the go-getter she is. And that was how I met my future wife. We had found love in a hopeless place.
Now naturally, our first date wouldn’t be for another month. After some back and forth texting, we decided on Shorty’s, another Waco staple, but an actually good one this time. She asked me to meet in the parking lot of the bar where we met. So I parked in the empty lot and waited. After a few moments, she knocked on my window, which startled me and left her with a big smile on her face and a laugh escaping from her lungs. Two of my favorite things about her: that smile and that laugh. We shared more of those laughs over pizza pillows (a glorified calzone) and beer (an actual glorious pitcher) on a beautiful Tuesday evening in March. During our conversation, I learned she had a child: her cat Stevie. I was going to be a (cat) dad! Now of course, we have two children (say hello Broccoli!).
A few months later, we were leaving the bar, our hands intertwined, our friends ahead of us. And as we walked, I just felt it was the right moment. For weeks, I had been thinking: When would be good? When should I tell her? How should I say it? I had known for weeks, but figuring out the right moment to say it was tough. As we walked down the sidewalk, we looked each other in the eye. The edges of our mouths curved upwards. And for a moment, I hesitated. And she capitalized. She pulled my arm back as we walked. “Wait,” she said, and we came close together. “I love you,” she said, that smile intoxicating me. I smiled back. It was the perfect moment. “I love you!”
And so the weeks went on, turning to months then years. And as the years went on, one question loomed: When? She was brimming with excitement over her future rock. Envious of friends who had already gotten theirs. Times where she thought it was coming, and was let down. Times where she maybe saw it coming and warned me off. But inside, I was smirking, because for months I had known the exact day it would happen: The 21st of September. That morning, I flew into Colorado without her knowing. For two hours, I was staked out at a mountainside road in Golden, waiting for her to get ready. Pacing, sweating, nervous. It was so windy: What if I dropped the ring, and it went careening down the ravine? Slowly, she made her way out into the mountains. I watched from afar as the car came up the road, as she got out, dressed in white. I snuck out from the car, keeping my head down in the road. I watched as she turned to look out over the mountains. Quickly, I came behind her. “Turn around.” She did, and gasped. My heart pounded. Onto the knee, out with the ring. “Will you marry me?”