In the summer of 2011, on the floor of a bathroom, I damaged a really good, really healthy, really important relationship.
Thing is, I'm someone who knows better. I am experienced, and I am careful, and I am considerate. I am gentle, when necessary. Someone even recently told me that I am very "present," and I believe that's true. But sometimes, like all of us, I do things that screw things up. Royally. Like jewel-in-the-crown, drape-it-in-fur, call-it-your-majesty, purple-like-Prince royal.
During a visit to the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis, I took a pit stop after seeing an exhibit curated by John Waters. (Said pit stop and Waters' artistic taste were not related, FYI.) Like any lady, I had my bag on me. And like me, I had my camera on me. As you do, I had to hang up both items on the single hook that a ladies' bathroom tends to provide a lady, if that lady is lucky. As luck would have it, as I was exiting the stall, the bag made it back to my shoulder. The camera, however, fell fast, bottom first, to the floor (and you know a bathroom at Walker is tiled in some hard, high-quality stuff, y'all).
Glass: everywhere. Me: panicking, and also grossed out by a bathroom floor. Quickly, though, I realized that the shards were from a filter I had affixed to the front of my (favorite) lens, and not the lens itself. Relieved but still anxious, I cleaned it up and rushed out to survey the real damage.
The camera still seemed to work. The lens was intact and reacting properly--it dragged at first, but then felt okay. The loss of the filter was no biggie. I continued to take pictures throughout the trip and through the summer.
Slowly, however, I started to notice that something was off. My camera and I weren't in sync. My photos, while acceptable, weren't totally working for me. I thought it might be the lens, and, after taking it into a repair shop, I found out I was right. The lens had been bent, but could be tweaked for a fee. I forked it over and hoped for the best.
The first several months after that were, admittedly, better. I went on a few trips, and she came too. We had fun--maybe not as much as before, but we made do. I took her exploring in the neighborhood and out to restaurants. We went to more museums. We avoided bathrooms.
Soon, though, we were struggling. The focus was shifting; things weren't so clear. It wasn't working--and it's still not. We're off and fuzzy and weird. These days, I think the problem wasn't just in her eyes; the real issue lies within her body. Her aging, tired, slightly broken body.
As a result, I avoid her like the plague. We stare down each other like bitter former lovers. I'm all, "Oh, hey, what's up" and she's like, "It all ended because you stopped touching me," and I'm like, "You weren't who I thought you were." And then she says something to the effect of, "We weren't clicking," and I openly judge her because I'm a professional writer and I don't approve of plays on words like that. (And THAT'S a lie, because I clearly do and am just being defensive.)
To try to improve my situation, I gave something else a go. I got all modern and decided to commit to the perky little camera on my iPhone. It's younger and sexier. It doesn't weigh me down. I like to show it off and introduce it to my friends. My mom likes it; my dad LOVES it. It sings me songs and helps me pay my bills. It has an app for that. And it gets the job done.
Except that it doesn't. It's not the same, and I've got to quit kidding myself. I've stopped doing things that are important to me--taking thoughtful pictures, writing lengthy posts to accompany them here on my blog--because I've let my old lady go, and the now-freelance me sort of fears the cost of what it would take to get her back. But I was more myself with her around, so I'm going to fix this mess--or at least find a way to pay someone else to. I miss the real deal something fierce, and I hope you'll stick around as we get our act together. Stay tuned. And in the meantime, follow my little fling on Instagram, won't you?
xo
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