...from ever taking a photo of me again.
I don't get it. Y is good at literally everything else. Re-wiring lamps. Trivia. Debating. Cooking. Making things out of wood. Gymnastics. Pulling my car out when it's stuck in ice. Fixing anything that could ever need fixing. Baking bread. Doctoring.
But, while he might be excelling at saving other people's lives, he can't take a photo of me to save his life.
Last weekend, we went to a real winner of a coffeeshop. The staff was rude, the wi-fi sucked, my chai tasted like milk. Its one saving grace was a neon green mural of Minneapolis. Like any good blogger would, I asked Y to take a photo of me in front of it. How could I possibly deny my faithful readers a good Minneapolis photo op?
You can guess how it turned out. But let me pause at this point in the story to tell you that everyone else who has taken my picture has been successful.
Like my nurse friend, who hadn't slept all night and took this picture of me wrangling an adorable squirming baby at 8 am:
Or a random stranger at a dimly lit bar with a Paleolithic Era cell phone (That might be a tad dramatic. It was an iphone 3. But Siri wasn't around in the Paleolithic Era OR the iphone 3 era, which leads me to believe they are the same...)
Or the self timer on my camera, which, need I remind you, IS AN INANIMATE OBJECT:
Sweet, simple, Y. Who is probably wishing we were married in Paleolithic times, where self expression was limited to cave walls (and no one acted all high and mighty for eating Paleo).
I'm so thankful for this memory of that subpar coffeeshop with the awesome mural.