This post over at Playgroups are No Place for Children reminded me of my own embarrassing mover story.
In the mid-80’s I was in the US Army, stationed in South Carolina. While there I met a guy, we got engaged, and moved in together. In fact, he is the one who had the Cavalier mix that became my first child. Anyway, one year for Christmas I got a Polaroid camera – remember those? Seems so quaint now, doesn’t it? You’d take a photo and it would spit out this gray square that magically transformed into an image right before your very eyes! While the film was more expensive than 110 film, at least you didn’t have to pay for it to be developed, or wait 2 weeks to get your pictures back. Can you believe the barbaric photo conditions we used to live under?
Being a 20-something man, my boyfriend/fiancee one day decided to be funny and snap a photo of me with that camera as I stepped out of the shower. Pure mortification ensued on my part, but at least the roll wasn’t going to be dropped off at the pharmacy for developing (where they’d probably refuse to develop it anyway!). He got a laugh at my expense and hid the photo.
A few months later we broke up and he moved out. And a few months after that I was leaving the Army and returning to New England. The movers came to pack up my stuff (oh, the gloriousness of military moves where they do all the packing and moving!). I was wandering around my house trying to stay out of the way when one of the movers sheepishly approached me with a 4×4 square and handed it to me. One look at that nearly-forgotten photo and I turned 10 shades of red as the poor mover tried not to be embarrased for himself or for me.