09:20:29

I wrote the following post on 13 September at around 10:00 CDT:

Nine hours, twenty minutes, twenty-nine seconds.

I keep looking at it, thinking about the change it represents. A choice. To live the rest of my life wondering about the what-ifs, or to be brave and be a man. To be like my father. Like my grandfather, his father, and his father, and so forth back to the beginning. I'm grateful for the choice they made, as it enables me to express a wide range of emotions and resolve in this hastily written screed.

A choice. To turn my back on the bizarre romanticism of the loner, or to take the first step of changing that.

What if I can't? What if it's a mistake?

But I know I can, and I know it's not. I just know.

Nine hours, eleven minutes, twenty-one seconds.

I resist the temptation to take it out of the locked cabinet again. To gaze upon it. Part of me is worried that someone will see me moping over such a silly object, and ask me why I have it. Part of me is worried someone won't.

I can't wait to take it with me to the airport. I can't wait to nervously worry about it falling out of my pocket. And I can't wait until I get down on my right knee, take it out of my pocket, take her left hand, and show it to her. And I can't wait until I ask her to be my wife.

Nine hours, five minutes, forty-nine seconds. Maybe I'll sneak another quick look.

She said yes.