Love Lacerated

Before I realized the toll the elements were going to take on my sinuses, I foolishly decided to enjoy the beautiful day by going to Forsyth park to do some dog seeing and writing.  I hurriedly ran my errands so I could get in a few hours of sunshine before it got dark.  By the time I got there, I estimated I had about two hours to sit and enjoy the sun and sights before I’d have to go back to my room.

I was finally finding some semblance of inspiration, whipping my muse like a two dollar hooker and drudging up some decent inner dialogue when all of a sudden, a white and wispy hand flew in my peripheral vision.  I looked up to see an older lady clad in black with matching hair that corkscrewed out of her head and a camera clasped to her side.  Her garish red lips were moving over her tilted teeth but I had no idea what she was saying because I was listening to my iPod.  

I pulled out my ear buds as she continued, "Would you please do me a big favor?  I’m photographing this newlywed couple right here," as she pointed toward a man and woman in wedding garb, "and I actually need to set up right where you’re sitting.  So, if you could just move down a bench or two that would be greaaat," and she said great quite condescendingly, as if my presence was inhibiting her "craft."  Well, she was inhibiting mine!  I was trying to write when she interrupted me.  What if I was on the brink of some kind of literary revelation?  What if I was writing my Walden?  She definitely squashed that with her wiry hair and unnerving mouth.  I could tell pretty quickly that she seemed to be one of those superior types, an Annie Leibovitz wannabe, sans the money and resemblance to Michael Douglas.

I was mildly offended because, really, the park is huge.  She could have snapped her shots anywhere else but she just had to do it right where I was sitting?  And she wanted me to move?  Couldn’t she wait her turn?  Couldn’t she have went somewhere else to shoot the soon-to-be divorced couple while I wrote about the power of love?  I suspect she wanted to take pictures close to the fountain, a beautiful backdrop for two people’s beautiful day (and the last one they’ll ever see).  Well, I also wanted a beautiful backdrop to incite some inspiration for my writing.  I guess I wasn’t significant enough to enjoy such a sight.

What a novel idea.  Let’s get married and have our picture taken at Forsyth!  Awesome, only ten million other couples have done that over the years.  What a cliché.  In fact, the lady explained to me that another married couple were getting their pictures taken on the other side of the fountain, so that’s why she had to come around and butt in on my territory.  And as much as I enjoy the park, it’s not that spectacular.  If I ever did get married, it wouldn’t be there, surrounded by all the homeless people and puppy poop.  No thanks.

Naturally, being the passive aggressive person that I am, all these thoughts flowed through my head but not my mouth.  I just slapped on a saccharine smile and said, "Sure, no problem, I don’t mind at all."

"Thank yoooou," in that same condescending tone.

I moved over to the next available bench, put my ear buds back in, and tried to pick up where I left off.  I couldn’t shake the events and had to switch direction.  I instead wrote about what had just happened, all the while the black clad, wire-haired woman began the usual photographer shtick.

"Okay, now look like you’re really in love with her!"

Um, was that direction really necessary?  It was their wedding day.  And if she really needed to see that love pop sizzle through the lens, then that couple is in trouble.  

"Remember, this is the best day of your life!  Let’s see those pearly whites!"

"What a beautiful dress!"

In fact, the bride was wearing a beautiful dress.  But it wasn’t white… it was gold.  You know what that means.

whore.

If the lady had included me in the photo shoot and had zoomed out to frame all of us, the lens would have revealed a physical representation of my (lack of) love life.  We have the happy couple and their family on the left, full of smiles and fluff and then me, all alone on the right, with nothing to keep me company but my music and my words.  A sad commentary.  Once again, love comes along and pushes me out of the way to make room for the more deserving.  Am I not that deserving?  Will I ever make that transition from lonely loser to handsome husband?  And at the very least, aren’t I deserving enough to just enjoy the scenery?