For years I'd been using a point-and-shoot digital from Kodak. It worked well in sunlight and captured some scenic places I've been and documented family moments. But apparently dropping a camera on cement from six feet up isn't good for it. I can't be sure whether it was the first or second time I dropped it that was the fatal blow.
This weekend has been filled with "Kodak moments," but alas all I had was the brand-free disposable, which is nearly impossible to conceal. In addition to the aforementioned, seizure-inducing color, the loud CLICK when you snap a picture draws some attention. If that weren't enough, you have to advance the film. Clicking more than a geriatrics's hip, you fling the turn wheel to the right seemingly for days until you are finally ready to take another shot.
I've grown accustomed to the ease and acceptance of digital. This shame is largely self-induced. No one said anything to me at any point this weekend. Yet I felt as though strangers saw my disposable and scoffed, perhaps excusing themselves to talk about it privately, or perhaps taking pictures of me taking pictures on their phones--the quintessential meta picture.
My disposable guilt partially impeded my taking pictures. On some level, whether disposable of digital, I feel voyeuristic when I take out a camera, even if it is to take pictures of friends and family. This is what ended the potential career in photojournalism. I turned 24 on Thursday and lined-up an epic weekend of celebrations.
"What was that thing that man had?" an inquisitive child asks their parents.
"That was a disposable camera, son. They were popular before you were born."
After the royal treatment from my coworkers who brought in coffee cake and chocolate covered strawberries, I had an awkward lunch incident. My male coworkers thought it a good idea to urge me to hit on the waitress at the restaurant. Returning home after work, I had a low-key dinner at home with my family.
Friday was a half-day which gave me plenty of time to come home, eat lunch, mow the backyard, read an article in The New Yorker, and take a nap. After the siesta, I checked my emails. Finding a reply from a dating prospect, I quickly opened the message. After a few exchanges, phone numbers were exchanged and my night sans plans quickly turned into a coffee date. I should mention that in my 24 years on this earth, I had never had a cup of coffee. Yes. Never. Seeing as this woman was passionate about java and it was a whole new year, I figured I could give it a (no espresso) shot. There was some reluctance that accompanied giving up my coffee virginity. Was it the right time? Was she the right person? Would I regret it after? What if I get addicted?
Like most of my dates, I think it went well, but only a returned or answered call will determine that. She did know it was my first time...
Saturday was the gold star day on the calendar. In my on-going quest to scratch-off the "never have I's" from my list, I invited friends and coworkers to Greektown. I had yet to visit and thought it as good a time as any. Dining outside we ate and conversed. All the while, the bulky disposable competed for pocket space with my phone, at times digging it's pointy corners into my thigh. So, instead of celluloid memories, I'll have to rely on the mental pictures a la Alec Baldwin in Friends. Our posse walked to Millennium Park and sampled some baklava. Delicious.
During the night, I was invited to Sunday's Blackhawks playoff game against the Wings. Knowing how many people would give up their digital camera to go, I quickly accepted the invite. The game thankfully, was more forgettable than memorable as the Hawks lost 6-1. I think they scored that one for my birthday. Why the Red Wings felt so generous, I don't know.
I'm taking today slowly and took tomorrow off from work. Tomorrow night I'll be going to the Cubs game to conclude my birthday weekend and hopefully that disposable camera.
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