Picture

The Carpenter, my partner in life, does not have a single photo of me on his mobile phone. Not one. 

You could argue that that’s normal because he isn’t one to take photos. He doesn’t do selfies. Ever. No vanity there. His phone is meant strictly for sports scores, text messages about dinner plans, job messages and memes that only he finds funny.  

He does have a few photos on his phone though; projects he’s working on in various stages of completion, concerts he’s been to, that time we rescued baby raccoons and his former chicken ensemble. Yet, there’s not a single photo of me, his partner of 33 years, wife of 26 years, mother of his children, his designated driver and all around supporter of whatever project he wants to do. 

To be clear, I have about 40 photos of him on my phone, all of which I’ve taken, naturally, because I’m the photo-taker and documentarian of our lives. 

Look, I adore this man. I have no doubt of his love for me, and I know he is not one for public displays of affection, especially on social media, but teasing the Carpenter is like oxygen to me. It fills my lungs and spirit with immense joy; natural and life-sustaining. When opportunity strikes for a deep inhale of that trouble-making, joy-inducing oxygen, I take it.

Recently, a dear friend celebrated a significant birthday and to honour the event, her husband posted several fun photos of her on Instagram with a sweet message of his love to honour the event. I assure you, this is not something my guy would even think to do. Ever.

“It’s Deb’s birthday,” I noted aloud, looking up from my phone to my spouse, who was scrolling sports scores on his device. “Stu posted cute photos of her.” No reaction. “It’s nice to see a man declare his love for his wife publicly, on social media no less. And to know he has lovely photos of her too, because he thinks she’s beautiful.”

The Carpenter responded with a sound like a hum accented gently with a growl caught in a ball of phlegm, acknowledging he heard me, but also, he understood the deeper message and was no longer comfortable with the direction of the conversation. Score one for me. 

Yes, I know, you shouldn’t keep score in relationships, but it’s football season so all bets are off, (or on, as it were). I’ve been listening to the Carpenter’s bragging of last year’s Seahawks Super Bowl win since February. They won. I know. We all know, Carpenter.

How does one retaliate? Invest in new San Francisco 49ers gear: an oversized sweatshirt and a personalized ball cap with my NFL Pool nickname, Kittle’s Kelly embroidered on the back. Good luck attire. These are the every-day clothes. The Kittle jersey is reserved for only game days, (I’m supersitious.). 

I put the new sweatshirt over my gym shorts (ironic, I know), put on the ball cap and took a few selfies, including one making a silly face, which I texted to my spouse with a note: “Photos for your phone. New screensaver?” 

He didn’t download a single photo out of stubbornness, but I know he liked them. It’s going to be a long football season. 

I’m going to ensure it.