A lovely young lady showed me her new camera yesterday, leaving me so depressed I could barely stay in the room.
Come to think of it, I didn’t stay. Mumbling of a pressing appointment seventeen miles away, I said my goodbyes and was out of there.
The real reason for leaving was that camera!
Background in brief. My own workaday model is at least three times smarter than I am, and the camera she displayed is as at least three times smarter than the one I carry. Indeed, hers puts mine in the Stone Age and me along with it. In the year I’ve owned this one and taken the photos seen posted here, I’ve figured out how to use maybe a fraction of its multitude of tricks. The model she held, however, would require at least a decade of hard study, and I may not have a decade, and even if such luxury were to be granted, is it wise to waste that window of time learning how use a fine instrument of photography when I could be reading Marcel Proust or Louis L’Amour? Moreover, when that decade—fingers crossed until feeling is gone!—when that decade finally rolled off the calendar, the wonder held yesterday as though it were a baby would probably belong in a photography museum. Continuing to salt my wounds, she spoke with enthusiasm about top-of-the-line cameras out there capable of doing things the rest of would find beyond our workaday imaginations.
Sadly, I knew her every word was true.
That was more than I could take.