I’ve still got it.
And I know this, because the photographer from the wedding hit on me. Yep, little ol’ me, 33-year-old mother of two. I’ve still got it.
Assuming, of course, that I ever did have it. Whatever it is.
And he was hot, too. I mean really cute. I noticed even before he hit on me.
I’m not too sure if I still have the radar thing, though. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it. T was off somewhere, and I was sitting there, enjoying the revelrie. He (photographer) bounded up and sat down. “Oh, good. Your husband’s gone. I can come and hit on you now.” he said. Not missing a beat, I replied, “Actually, I was thinking of hitting on you for your laptop. I wanted to download my pictures and delete all the crappy ones so I could take some more.” He made some witty reply and bounded off again, snapping more photos as he walked. Now let me assure you, this guy just has the kind of personality that can carry off that kind of remark without coming across as creepy. I was genuinely delighted.
When T came back, I said, “Hey, guess what? The photographer hit on me!!” “Really?” he said, unable to completely subdue his incredulity. I decided not to take offense at his skepticism. After all, I did look pretty good, for a 33-year-old mother of two. I had on a cute flippy dress that hid all the spots I wanted hidden and accentuated the ones I didn’t. I had high heels, and legs that just ran half a marathon. I even had on lipstick. I was feeling pretty cute, and it seems I even looked okay, too.
And to think I had briefly wondered if the photographer was gay. He was just fashionable and self-confident enough to make me curious… until I saw him chatting up some of The Groom’s cuter cousins. In a way that made me think that he probably wasn’t just looking for a few more models. But still, if I was included in that category, my night was made. And he certainly played the role of photographer well. He would walk past a couple dancing, thrust his camera in their general direction, snap a photo, and carry on. Not quite the Austin Powers “work it, baby, work it” style, but managing to elicit the desired poses, even from the most reluctant of subjects. While he didn’t exactly blend into the background, he certainly managed to put everyone at ease enough to get a few good shots of each guest, and lots of good formals. No matter where he walked, it was obviously with purpose. He strode from shot to shot, at home anywhere if only he had a camera in his hands.
It’s funny, though, because while I was thrilled by the overt flattery of his approach, even if it might have been a bit tongue-in-cheek, I was also more than a little embarassed (which should be obvious by my slightly sarcastic tone in relating the story). I haven’t been ogled by someone other than my husband in a long time. And it felt good. I know T appreciates me for my charming personality as well as my smokin’ good looks (okay, that was more than slightly sarcastic), but for him, I am and always will be a Sure Thing. We finished the courting ritual long ago. I’m his, and I have no plans to go anywhere else. There was nothing at stake for this stranger. T often tells me verbally or demonstratively that I am attractive to him, but I have to say it was a major ego boost to have someone with objectivity and no chance at a “reward” to offer an unsolicited compliment.
And so, my friends, I hope you aren’t offended if I claim this as a major one of the fond memories forged at your wedding. I will always remember with warmhearted affection the hot photographer who hit on me. And I will certainly tune out the derisive rebuttal of my ever-loving, each time I proudly relate the story to some poor unsuspecting listener, “Yeah, but he was hitting on everyone”. I refuse to believe this is true. The entire complex of my self-esteem is now built on the understanding that I was his one and only and he now sits, somewhere, pining for me and me alone.
Okay maybe not, but it’s a fun fantasy, and the ego remains boosted. I’ve still got it, and now, I have proof. I’m off now, to sip wine and read Harlequin romances.