She paces back and forth in her bathroom in nothing but a sexy bra and panty set, heart pounding in her chest. Just do it. She tells herself, taking a quick peek at her reflection in the mirror. Not bad. She adjusts her bra for the 27th time. Just do it. She silently says again, taking a deep breath. She walks into her bedroom, picks it up off her nightstand and holds it out in front of her at arms length.
Click. She looks at the photo. Ick no. She shakes her head and ruffles her hair, pulling it over her near naked shoulder. Blonde hair splays across her chest. She stretches her arm out again, holding it a little bit higher than the last time.
Click. She tilts her head. Click. She looks up. Click. She looks down. Click. She looks to the side. Click. This time straight at the camera, pouty lips.
She holds her phone close to her face and goes through the camera roll. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.
She growls and throws her phone on her bed. Why is this so hard? He’s your husband. He’s seen it ALL before.
Deep breaths, back to the phone. Click Click Click Click Click.
Camera roll. Sigh. Okay, that one’s not so bad. She bites her lip and stares at the photo for few more minutes finding every single possible flaw, anxiety billowing deep in her belly.
Ding dong…ding dong…ding dong. She drops the phone when she hears her best friend, Kimberly’s, signature ring. Then she laughs and picks it up answering with a chuckle.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
“Taking sexy selfies of myself, ” she says holding the phone with her shoulder as she pulls on her jeans.
Kimberly lets out a breathy laugh. “Why?”
“To send to Huz.” She puts her arms through her shirt and pulls it over her head.
“Send it to me.”
“Dude, no way. I can’t even look at them. I’ve taken at least 30 pictures. One is just okay. ”
They talk for 30 minutes about 247 different subjects, their typical daily chat that takes place every day during Kimberly’s commute home from work.
“Okay, I’m here at the daycare. Talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and send me that picture. I’ll tell you if you should send it.”
“Okay, whatever. Bye.”
She waits the 20 minutes it should take Kimberly to get home before she hits “Send” along with the message, “You better fuggin delete this.”
Then she paces back and forth, stomach twisted in knots, and waits for her alleged “best friend” to respond with…anything.
She convinces herself it’s terrible and decides not to send it.
Then she hears the ding on her phone.
She responds with a sigh of relief. Huz leaves for the store, so she decides it’s the perfect time to send it to him.
Send. Sigh. Done. Wait.
Tic toc. Tic toc. Tic toc.
Huz comes home, says nothing. She waits until the kids are in bed and says, “Did you get my text?” He smiles a half smile “Yeah. Why did you send that?”
She looks at him, rolls her eyes, and walks into her room. If he only knew. Later he says, “I like it.” Too little. Too late. Not good enough. She grabs his phone and deletes it after already deleting it from her phone and vows to never ever take a sexy selfie again.
Remember children, “Naked selfies almost always work.”
But almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.