Though the big move may be three and a half weeks out, my head is already kicked back on a beach chair with a big floppy hat pulled down over its eyes, and burrowing its toes into sun-warmed sand.
Sadly, and conflictingly, my body’s still tasked with TPS reports until June. But as my head seems to think we’re already beach bumming it, I haven’t been able to quell the urge to lighten my hair, purge the stormy-palette of Victorian-inspired garments from my closet and replace them with breezy brights and whites and ditch my heals for sandals. (Once unbridled, good luck getting your toes back into the bitter confines of vintage, 4-inch pumps).
Anyway, I’ve been sidetracked with the Other Blog (I’m considering kicking that one to the curb for lack of personality; how could I ever have strayed??) and the musical, so my apologies for the silence around here. I’ve also been getting the move to Wilmington organized, and in the midst of all of this: a bit of a surprise trip to London has landed in my lap. J’s sister is graduating in June, and while I knew J would be attending, I hadn’t expected to join him.
So – off I went today to get the dreaded task of passport photos out of the way during my lunch break. Possibly I should have realized this would be an ill-fated experience when the digital processing program rejected my first two attempts. The girl helping me apologized profusely. “It NEVER does this,” she assured me. That’s precisely when I should’ve turned and run, saved the chore for another day, when my hair would be less frizzy, my skin not so ravaged by stage makeup, my visage not so lackluster as to be shot down by a COMPUTER. But no – we persevered, and round 3 proved acceptable to the computer. Five minutes later, that sucker coughed up a slip of 6 identical head-and-shoulders shots of yours truly.
Or so it would like you to believe.
Have you seen these kiosks? Big, hulking, dishwasher-sized units with a little computer touch screen perched on top? What exactly is going on in there? Just what is encased in that sputtering, clicking shell? My theory: some geek with Photoshop skillz and a cruel sense of humor. He gets your image file, de-saturates you to remove any signs of life, sharpens every fine line on your face thus aging you a good decade or two, texturizes your skin in some choice spots and scrawls in a few ruddy blemishes for good measure. Then pushes the “PRINT” button and awaits the carnage (seriously, because why else would it take 5 minutes for that thing to produce your printed pics?)
I spent the car ride home peaking up at the rearview mirror, trying to convince myself that, no, I do not in reality look like that, and, no, I was not allowed to pull into the next CVS and have the photos retaken. What’s done is done, and the important part is, these puppies are going to get me overseas for the first time in more than a decade. Take THAT photogeek!