Thursday, May 19, 2011

On Being Really Mature and Sending Dressing Room Photographs

I am, like, really mature.
Did you ever say that about yourself in high school?
I said it about myself all the time, maybe because every fall, I played tennis and my skin would tan so hard that it would turn greenish (thanks, Pops!) while my friends just looked y'know, tan, or maybe it was because I had a mad crush on a boy two years (!!!) older than me or maybe it was because I knew how to apply glitter to my eyelids or maybe it was because I drove 90 miles an hour on the freeway and once took a near-deathly turn into one way traffic on a busy downtown Kansas City street, or maybe it was because I actually, y'know, thought I was really mature for my age.

Photobucket

Which makes sense, right?
How babeliciously mature was I at seventeen?
If only Mr. C. had known me then... he never would have talked to me and if he had, I probably would have looked right past him since I was, like, so into older boys and he was born in 1987 and I was born in 1986. Gross, right?

Thankfully, when we had our first conversation in 2009 (not when I first saw him in 2008!), I had gotten over my lifelong fancy that I was incredibly mature and thus could only date boys with 1984-or-earlier birth dates. Maybe that's how I forgave him (ha!) for being younger than me, but it could also be that he said he would change his birth date for me.

(Why hasn't that happened yet, Mr. C.? I had to write 1987 and our new housing application and I'm sure the landladies were not impressed. Or maybe they were with my cradle robbing cred. You young'un.)

This post has gotten away with itself.
What I was going to type was this:

I am, like, really mature.
Which is why, when three states away from Mr. C., I send him pictures of myself in dressing rooms so I can hear a "yay!" or "nay!" from halfway across the country.

dressing room

What can I say?
We like to keep the romance alive, even when we're 1,115 miles away from each other.

P.S. If I were a dutiful blogger I'd apologize for the Instagrammed iPhone pictures since, y'know, I own thousands of dollars of photography equipment but really, who would respect me if I took out my nice camera equipment in the middle of a Kohl's, Target, or Old Navy dressing room?

Actually, scratch that. I would respect someone who took pictures of themselves with professional equipment while changing outfits in a tiny stall as their baby screams the whole time since s/he saw his/her mom take off her shirt which, in baby world, could only mean one thing: Good ol' fashioned, homegrown milk.

It doesn't get more organic than that.

(Did I just gross you out? I just grossed myself out.)