I’ve always considered myself an optimistic planner. “Plan the work, work the plan”—it’s practically tattooed on my brain, thanks to years of suburban LDS upbringing where preparedness was next to godliness. But as life has a funny way of teaching us, there are plans... and then there are colossal misadventures that leave you blinking into the metaphorical headlights of your own hubris. Today, I want to tell you about one such event in my life: the “Grand Romantic Picnic Incident of 2013,” otherwise known as the day I learned to stop forcing perfect moments and let the universe have its say.

Spoiler alert: It involved raccoons, a vintage Thermos, and enough awkwardness to fuel a sitcom season.

The Idea: Romance, But Make It Pinterest-Worthy

It started with a crush. Let’s call her Emma (because, frankly, that was her name). She and I met at a bookshop in downtown Salt Lake, where we bonded over a shared obsession with Mary Oliver poetry and an unusually heated debate about which was the best trail in Zion National Park (we agreed to disagree, but my vote remains Angel’s Landing). Naturally, I worked up the nerve to propose a date, and she agreed. The confidence rush this gave me was... let’s say disproportionate to the occasion.

I didn’t want to simply take Emma to dinner. No, that was too rudimentary for the levels of charm I intended to unleash. I wanted a date so infused with charm, whimsy, and effort that it would score me a permanent spot in her diary entries. So, I planned a sunrise picnic overlooking Salt Lake Valley. It was to include freshly baked scones, steaming coffee in a retro plaid Thermos, and an artfully casual playlist of early Fleetwood Mac.

I imagined the rest of the date playing out like the opening montage of a quirky indie movie: her laughing at my jokes as the sun painted us in warm amber hues, the two of us bonding over shared stories of wanderlust, maybe an inspirational monologue to a nearby deer for reasons unknown. Perfect, right? Wrong.

The Execution: When Everything That Can Go Wrong... Does

The problems started early. First, I overslept—not by a little, but enough to turn “sunrise picnic” into “late-morning tangle with panic.” I gave myself a frantic pep talk (if there’s one thing a religious upbringing teaches you, it’s how to summon God-level resolve under pressure). I loaded the car with all my meticulously planned items and sped toward our meeting spot. I was only running 20 minutes late—a minor hiccup, considering the grandeur of my plan—or so I thought.

Then came the hike. Well, technically, it was supposed to be a light stroll to the scenic lookout, but recent rain had turned the dirt path into what could only be described as quicksand. By the time Emma and I reached our “perfect” picnic spot, both of us were muddy up to the knees and laughing nervously like contestants on a survival reality show. “This is adventurous,” she joked through slightly gritted teeth. “Theme park muddy,” I replied, because nothing about me is chill in moments of crisis.

While I unpacked, trying desperately to salvage some shred of romance, the oversized vintage Thermos – the mascot of my overachievement – betrayed me completely. You see, I hadn’t thought to test it, and it turned out that it didn’t so much “keep liquids warm” as “serve as a sad decanter for lukewarm brown water.” So instead of artisan coffee, I poured us two cups of what might generously be called “beige tea.” For the record, Emma was very polite about it, though her expression suggested that caffeine withdrawal was kicking in.

And then, dear reader, came the raccoons.

As Emma and I sat there, attempting to maintain a witty repartee over soggy scones (blame the Tupperware), two raccoons materialized. These weren’t the adorable Disney sidekick variety, mind you—these were battle-hardened park trash bandits who apparently decided that my poor picnic setup wasn’t just food but an existential threat to their dominion. They advanced, hissing and bold, and I did what any reasonable “man of action” would do. I froze.

Emma, bless her heart, stayed cool, calmly suggesting we give them the remaining scones in peace. Rattled but nodding, I tossed the scones like I was feeding raw meat scraps to velociraptors. The raccoons feasted, we retreated, and that was, for all intents and purposes, the end of our “date.”

The Lesson: Let Go of "Perfect"

Now, I could’ve spent the car ride home wallowing in embarrassment. (Okay, fine, I did spend the first five minutes of it doing exactly that.) But as I replayed the disaster in my head, a surprising realization hit me: yes, the date had been a train wreck by Pinterest standards, but, strangely, it was also kind of... fun? Messy, unpredictable fun. Emma and I may not have gotten that “perfect moment” I’d dreamed of, but we had shared something far more human: the kind of chaotic bonding experience you simply can’t script or stage.

Here’s the thing about perfectionism in relationships—romantic or otherwise: it’s a mirage. Sure, it looks impressive from a distance, but as soon as you get up close, it disappears, leaving you chasing another illusion. What I learned from the picnic misadventure (in addition to the fact that Utah raccoons are no joke) is that relationships flourish not because of grandiose, carefully choreographed gestures but because of authenticity—the kind found in resilience, shared laughter, and a healthy appreciation for life’s messy, raccoon-filled surprises.

Practical Tips for Avoiding a Picnic Meltdown

If you’re someone prone to over-planning (hi, nice to meet you), consider these lessons I wish I’d known sooner:

  1. Test drive your plan. Vintage Thermoses may look aesthetic, but they are not to be trusted without a dry run. The same goes for any grand idea involving hikes, kitchens, or animals.
  2. Pack for nature like you’re starring in a nature documentary. Snacks are currency in the animal kingdom. Carry extra, preferably sealed.
  3. Don’t script it; shape it. It’s great to have a concept for your date, but leave room for flexibility and spontaneity. Half the magic lies in what happens when nothing goes as planned.
  4. Learn to laugh at disaster. Humor is a universal diffuser of awkwardness. Also? Nothing bonds people faster than a shared “We survived that, right?” story.
  5. Invite intention, not perfection. Put your heart into your effort, but don’t treat the outcome like a performance review. That way, even the unexpected can’t rattle you.

The Not-So-Romantic Aftermath

As for Emma, we didn’t make it past a second date, but I don’t attribute that to the picnic. Sometimes, things simply don’t align, and that’s okay. We drifted apart amicably, leaving me with an important realization: the only thing worse than a failed plan is a missed opportunity. Even with all its imperfections, that picnic was worth trying. And next time, I’ll be smarter about the Thermos.

So here’s my takeaway, for all you would-be romantics and fellow overthinkers: it’s not your job to engineer cinematic perfection. It’s your job to show up, be present, and embrace the ride—mud, raccoons, beige tea, and all.

Because while plans may fail, the stories we walk away with? Those last forever.