This past Saturday was gorgeous. It was sunny and wonderfully warm. The Husband and I drove up to Huntington Beach to have lunch and enjoy the weather. Of course, so did everyone else. Including Tito Ortiz and his posse. (Do they still call it that?) They sat at a table a couple feet away from us, bombarded by autograph requests and flashing cameras. It was quite a scene.
Once, I asked an actor for an autograph while I was working in a hotel in Monterey. He was with his family and another couple of friends and afterwards I felt so guilty for interrupting his vacation that I knew I would never do it again. (Tim McGraw, Vin Diesel, and Dane Cook are the exceptions, but even then, I won’t ask for an autograph. I’ll just rip my clothes off and take a flying leap. Hey, I’m just trying to keep it honest.)
So, there Tito sat, within arms reach, and me refusing to bother him. However, I couldn’t help myself from slyly taking his picture with The Husband’s camera phone. This is the best I got while pretending to hold the phone very nonchalantly and oh! I didn’t even realize it was pointed in his direction! Oops!
Unfortunately, this picture caused a lot more problems than I could have imagined.
When I asked The Husband for his password to get these images off the internet, I never thought twice about it. I mean, I already knew of all the dirty little secrets that were stored away in his phone, right?
God, one day I will break that fucking thing in half and I swear I won’t be sorry. That and Facebook. I don’t know how I’ll break Facebook in half, but trust me, I’ll find a way.
I remember when I was sixteen, at home one night hanging with The Parents, we heard a clamor coming from the neighbors house. The three of us went out onto the balcony, looked over and watched in stunned silence as our friendly (and cute) neighbor proceeded to beat the shit out of his computer with a baseball bat. No lie. Turns out his wife was in the middle of a torrid, internet affair. I used to think the guy was out of his freaking mind, but now I kinda commiserate with the poor fool. They’ve since gotten divorced.
But I digress. The images and messages I stumbled across today were far worse than anything I had found before. And even though I realize that they’re not new, that they occurred during the same time as the others I’ve found, it still hurts and rubs raw at wounds still fresh and bloody.
And, to add insult to injury, it seems I only come across these things while in the middle of trying to do something nice. Which then makes me feel very stupid and foolish… and very much like a child trying to play a grown-up’s game while completely unaware of the rules.
See, The Husband’s had this picture frame for many, many months (possibly years now, but who knows) that was given to him as a “welcome to the team” gift when he accepted his current job. He brought it home and asked me to insert a picture of the two of us, but it’s since been left neglected, untouched and picture-less.
A week ago, I finally decided to do something about it. I thought it would be a nice gesture, you know, in the whole spirit of recommitting to each other and starting fresh and all that. I asked J to takes some pictures of me. And, like other photographers I’ve met, I really hate being in front of the camera. Hate, hate, hate it. I mean, I really fucking hate it. I am uncomfortable and awkward and the only thing I can think to do is make silly faces because isn’t this really one big joke anyway? Of course, that frame of mind is not very conducive to a nice photo. Which is what I was aiming for.
Last night, as I finally got a chance to look through them, I was fairly pleased with the way they came out.
Except now, unable to get the images I’ve found out of my mind… completely powerless to stop them from playing a painful little slide show in my head… I am aware of every flaw.
I know. I should stop thinking about it. It’s all supposed to be in the past.
But, right now? The betrayal is staring me in the face, making my chest ache, making me wonder if and when it will happen again… and it fucking sucks.