Photo bomb

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’d like to share a teachable moment with you of what not to do to your beloved if you are attempting to inspire a spark of passion between you. Today’s lesson is brought to you by the letters C, for the Carpenter, and W, for “What the?” “Why?” and “Weirdo.”

Call us old fashioned, but the Carpenter and I have never been ones to send each other naughty images using our mobile phones, even though it’s apparently the thing to do (at least, I hear that’s the thing to do, because my single friends over-share. But as I still accidentally put my thumb in iPhone photos, I think that’s naked enough for me).

We wouldn’t dare exchange naughty photos, mostly out of fear we’d text them to one of our kids by accident and send our offspring into therapy for the unforeseen future. And since they’re both too old for our medical insurance plan now, best not to open up a tab with a psychiatrist. 

The other reason is equally obvious: it’s gross. Can you imagine the iCloud full of iNeverWantToSeeThat images of us in our skivvies, or worse, in daylight? No thank you. Let the young folks on dating apps have their toned and taut nudity, if that’s their thing. I am grateful I did not date in the days of mobile phones and internet access. 

But that doesn’t mean the Carpenter and I don’t like to keep the spark alive in our relationship. We get fired up in all kinds of fun ways. Sometimes he not only makes a pot of coffee, but he pours me a cup in my favourite mug. That’s hot. And sometimes (like once a year and only if I need something done around the house), I share my potato chips and a spoonful of dip. A big spoonful. My point is, sexy is a state of mind and we’re both out of ours. 

Leading up to this Valentine’s Day though, things got weird. 

The Carpenter sent a photo to my mobile phone that was, well, shall we say, unexpected – so much so that it made me gasp aloud at work. I don’t know if my colleagues heard that or the “oh my, that’s disgusting” that followed, or the expression “gross,” but this was not the photo I maybe would have enjoyed from the love of my life.

My beloved sent me an image of a large and very dead opossum, curled up in full rigor mortis, frozen stiff, tucked under the platform of stacked logs. The caption read, “Look what I found in the wood pile.”

I think it’s fair to say we know which one of us is worse at flirting.

This is what comes of my unrelenting hope that the Carpenter will text me something sweet and loving to let me know he thinks about me during the workday – beyond messages such as “can you check the bank account?” and “dinner ideas?” both of which are always posed as a question, but never elicit an answer that either of us likes. I suppose a sweet smile or an adorable meme is too much to ask for. 

A dead opossum. How does one respond to such an unexpected and disturbing image? Especially one seen during one’s lunch hour. Suffice it to say, the Carpenter is now forbidden from sending me images when I’m at work. 

Yet the coffee is always hot, and in my eyes, so is the Carpenter. 

And that’s enough for me. 

WriteOut of Her Mind