Romance. It dies as we get older.

I’m not talking about love. Love lasts forever if you’re doing it right. I’m talking about the time when love is still mysterious.

Think of high-school. Over the bra, under the blouse, hoping to god your parent’s don’t walk in. When you’re exploring someone’s body with wonder. When you’re not sure how to act, how to interpret things, and you’re tearing your heart out cause you don’t know what’s going to happen next.

You lose that as you live and you learn and you grow. Confidence takes that nervousness away because you speak your mind, you share yourself, and the uncertainty is gone.

Maybe I’m just feeling old. Maybe I’m just clinging to the past in a fit of nostalgia, to the innocence of my youth when love was the only thing to worry about. Romance without practicality, boundaries, type, or class.

Maybe my more recent relationships just haven’t had that nervousness. There was always that immediate connection that leaves little room for doubt. As fiery as they were, there was no mystery.

Maybe I’m just feeling numb again.

John still comes to me with girl advice every now and then, when he’s losing sleep and he’s writing terrible, hilarious poetry. He hates the uncertainty, but I tell him to think of when he’s older and married to the same person for forty years, how much he’ll miss those feelings.

I tell him to enjoy it. To lose himself. He should be so lucky to feel so strongly about someone.

We all should at least once in our lives, before it’s too late and the romance dies.

I never used to answer my phone.

Part of it was because I was being stalked by a crazy girl for a while. Somehow she got my number and called a few times, but Trolley picked up and was able to warn me.

The other reason was because I used to be stoned almost every minute off work. Dealing with people in the outside world was an instant buzz kill.

It’s only recently that I’ve started taking calls again. The languid process of rehabilitating my social skills has been rather slow. Sometimes I get so busy that I don’t have time to check my messages, and they build up into strange archives like this, circa last month.

“You’re the perfect woman.”

She realizes this as she writes down my chest, waist, and hip size, then asks rhetorically, “What are the typically ideal measurements?”.

Aaron and I could only look at each other, as we had no idea.

“36–26–36.”

“Wow, so you’re a really hot chick!”, says Aaron.

Hi-LAR-ious. Years of confidence I’ve gained, girlfriends convincing me that I’m not too skinny, gone.

“And how much do you weigh?”

“(Pause)…113″.

“After he’s had a buffet”, Aaron adds. My friend the comedian. To console me, he says, “It’s okay. Remember, you’ll be paired up with Jenn in the party”.

My counterpart. The tiniest girl I know.

In the last few years I’ve been to weddings for other friends, but Aaron’s the first out of my core group to get married (although Pat got engaged before him). To pay tribute to his culture, he wants the wedding to be a bit Scottish — something his Popa is especially pleased about.

As a groomsman, I’ll be wearing a kilt. As a Chinese guy, I’ll be feeling a little out-of-place.

He asked me to give him a hand in shopping for the regalia. What a culture shock. Looking through catalogues of claidheamh, sporrans, Sgian Dubhs, Ghillies Brogues. I can’t even pronounce the names. My tongue wasn’t made for these kinds of inflections.

“It’ll take you guys longer to get dressed than the bride”.

Before we leave I remember to ask, “Can we go traditional?”, with Aaron adding, “My Popa would be pretty upset if we didn’t”.

Traditional. The euphemism for commando. The euphemism for bear-ass naked.

“Don’t worry, everything is dry-cleaned”, say the woman assuringly.

It’s only after we leave that I realize everything but the shirt is made of wool.

I’ll be scratching my balls through the whole service.

I was going through my pictures and realized that there were quite a few I haven’t posted, so I decided to do an end-of-year wrap-up. Most of these are photos I like but they didn’t fit anywhere, or were made redundant by other pictures telling a story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Since we got bought out by a public company, the purchasing procedure has changed quite a bit. Some of the top brass from the head office in Boston flew in this week, and I made it a point to thank the CFO for personally approving the purchase of a new Canon Rebel XTi, 100mm f/2.8 macro lens, and 50mm f/1.8 lens. After the president introduced me, he told me I did a fantastic job with the pictures in the company catalogue, and it really made my day.

I think I’ve really developed as a photographer in the little time I’ve owned my first SLR camera. Looking back on a year of photos has made me realize that I’ve learned a lot, not only simple photographic theory, but familiarity with my camera and post-processing as well. I still have a lot more to learn though, especially with exposure and metering, as digital cameras make it easy to get good shots without really needing to have an in-depth understanding.

“Jeff?”

A voice calls me into the back from the waiting room.

As I get up, I notice that her eyes are dark against her fair skin, almost black. They’re piercing, but gentle, never intimidating. Her face is kind and welcoming, full of youth, like the younger sister of your girlfriend.

I follow. Her hair is pulled back in a neat, braided ponytail. Wrapped around the curves of her body is her dental gown, and she looks like a small, sterile package of energy. She asks the usual questions, speaking with unrivaled confidence. It’d be intimidating as well, if it wasn’t for the control in her voice.

Even after I’m seated in the chair and the ultrasonic scaler starts to whirr, I’m surprisingly calm. The unique buzzing, spinning, squirting, sucking sounds begin their symphony.

She rests her forearm on my chest for leverage as she works on the posteriors.

I start to wonder how appropriate it is, if anyone has ever spoken out. Or have they not had the heart, like me?

I feel objectified.

As she works, she makes one-sided small-talk, saying every word with conviction. With her tools in my mouth, I answer only in mumbled positives and negatives. She goes along the arch systematically, molar to molar, lingual to buccal.

I want to see her eyes again, to take a closer look at what struck me first. To avoid making an obvious, darting glance, I preemptively look where her eyes will be soon as she follows her predictable path, and wait.

Her eyes arrive, and I look away. It’s too uncomfortable. I’m peering into the world of another who’s distracted, not returning my gaze.

Her physical intimacy was innocent, I assume.

Mine may have been less so.