A while ago, my sister recently shared a photo on her Facebook page: my husband and I all dressed up and posing very professionally, looking, you know, younger — much younger. Seeing myself captured on film always comes as a shock. First of all, I don’t remember at all posing for a professional picture other than for my passport and at my church wedding. Secondly, my husband is wearing a suit and tie I don’t recognize and I’m wearing a dress that I’m pretty sure I don’t own. And my hair is a different color. What’s up with that?
A quick call to my sister solved the mystery. She had hired a photographer to snap couples’ photos at her birthday bash ten years ago, then forgot about sharing them. Better late than never, but now I’m rethinking my hair color choices and searching the backs of closets for that dress.
When I bought a new computer, things had changed so drastically in the computer world in the past decade that I had to get the Geek Squad to teach me how to operate it. The one thing I forgot to ask about was how to reinstall the screensaver photo gallery, which was originally set up by a techie friend. I’ve been missing that so I got another techie friend to re-install.
Joyfully, I once more can share lapses in work time with images of family/fun/faces & places, amazed anew to see preemie twin granddaughters sweetly facing each other in their shared crib, then a quick scene change to Tweens vamping it up in TJ Maxx with borrowed scarves, hats and purses. The new screensaver also mix-matches images into surprising photo montages: in one, my adorable grandson, celebrating his first birthday in one frame, is looking up at his ten-year-old self sporting his first buzz cut in another frame. Wow, whiplash.
I came home one late afternoon after a stress-inducing day, walked inside and, on auto-pilot, thumbed in the code for the security system. It didn’t stop beeping so I rekeyed the code. It still didn’t stop beeping. I began to panic, realizing it was getting dangerously close to screaming out loud and terrorizing our neighbors. I began to push the STOP code in for the third time, then realized I was using a code that we used for 20 years in South Florida, where we always had a security system.
My husband used to tell people that we’ve been in our home for six winters. I didn’t correct him publicly, but did an imaginary eye roll. I was listening to someone share their tale of a huge tree in their backyard that nearly toppled on their garage and, being naturally competitive, I began a hair-raising yarn of how I watched a 20-foot spruce tree lean to and fro, directly aimed at our picture window. I paused for dramatic effect, then said, “But, thankfully, Super Storm Sandy pushed that tree in the opposite direction.” My friend chimed in, “You were here for Sandy? Wow, this is your sixth winter here.”
To quote the long-ago Roman poet Virgil, “Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus (“but it flees meanwhile: irretrievable time flees.”) My take on that: Time is running away from us (and we’re never going to catch up.)