Last Saturday, the husband came home from work and announced that Rita's was open. So, I threw on my clothes (I was still in my PJs), and away we went. I got a root beer gelati, and he got a chocolate peanut butter concrete (it's like a McFlurry or DQ Blizzard). As we finished them in the car, I decided that the nearby red bench and shrubbery setup made for a nice photo op. There was no one else around; although it was warm for February, it still wasn't quite ice cream weather. Or so I thought. Because then a woman in a big maroon SUV pulled up next to us, obliterating the bench. "Oh, she'll be in and out," I said. But when she returned with her cone, she and her phone settled in for a gabfest. The husband said that she was hiding from her kids, or maybe the Mafia (he's very imaginative and even more so on a stakeout). Now, I know what you're thinking. Why couldn't we just walk around the SUV and take the picture anyway? Because I felt self-conscious, that's why. I realize the irony of waiting for privacy to take a picture to show the world. But there's something about getting something just right before it's ready for public consumption. Like adding the last piece of a puppies-at-a-picnic puzzle or baking an imperfectly perfect pan of popovers. Not that the husband thought it was weird. He's used to my quirks. He said, "We don't want her leaning out of her window and saying, "Ooh, I can take the picture if both of you want to be in it." Because then I would have to say, "Oh no, she just wants it of her." ' So, we waited it out and chatted away, enjoying a deep and existential conversation about . . . something. Then the SUV finally sped off in a blur of maroon, its driver homeward bound to her brats and/or warlord. We rushed out into the sun, lest any other imposing vehicles got any ideas. And/or cravings for custard.
You know how sometimes you have an idea for a photo and you're excited about it, and then you take the photo and it looks like a crayon that went through the dryer? That's how I felt about most of the pics we took that day. The good one turned out to be this candid. They say that the true mood/soul/whatever of the photographed is coaxed out by the right photographer. I'm inclined to agree. Especially because I'm laughing.
That said, the husband is in the frame. See that black smudge on the bench? That's him. Or rather, his shadow. The fact that I didn't Photoshop him out is a testament to how much I love him.
Well, him and honoring the authenticity of a perfectly imperfect Rita's run.
Long live the root beer gelati.