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Quickly it became less of a secret. Mainly because our children like to pretend they’re listening to music when they’re really eavesdropping on important conversations. When it comes to spying, they’re a cross between Jason Bourne and Austin Powers. They’re quite adept at reconnaissance, but they can’t stop giggling about it.

My husband has been the main holdout in the puppy scheme. He was worried how our dog would take the change, and even though he’s never acted particularly enamored of her, Charlie has made it her life’s work to show him how much she loves him.

For example:

I walk in the door, she nods imperceptibly and drops her head again as if the energy expended in doing so may have caused a breaker to blow.

HE walks in the door and she’s all asking him about his day, handing him his slippers, rolling her eyes in my direction and whispering, “She STILL doesn’t know what she’s making us for supper!”

So, awhile back, my husband had to go out of town. He had an early flight and Charlie was in the backyard when he left. When she came back in, she couldn’t find him. She performed an exhaustive search, and eventually fell asleep behind the couch. He wasn’t there.

For two days, she walked nervously around the house, going out, coming back in, checking the laundry room (in case he was hiding next to the treats), sleeping in weird places and barking randomly. I started thinking she wasn’t so crazy about the puppy scheme either.

Then, my husband, the love of her life, sent her a video message.

It said, “Hey girl! I’ll be home soon! Who’s a good girl? Wanna treat?”

I played it over and over until I was the one wanting the treat. She loves him so much I was afraid I’d never get my phone back.

But thankfully it worked.

And now we return to the puppy scheme.

Sure! Except for the fact that low-key is something I normally only accomplish by accident.

So, this morning I woke up in a cold sweat, remembering tomorrow is the day and I have done nothing to prepare.

Time to get my Learn On.

But first, a cup of coffee and a little physical therapy to start the day…

a funny video of people lip-reading for football players…

the sweetest gaggle of kittens rolling around in a basket…

And…Ahem!

It’s noon and I still don’t know how to do a low-key portrait on purpose. Eeek!

So, I decided to use my Interwebical Powers for good. Thankfully, except for that bad batch of fudge last Christmas, the interweb rarely disappoints. There are so many things I learned here and I found a number of awesome examples here. In addition to that, I tapped the knowledge of a few fellow photographers who have experience with low-key shooting. Like HUMAN BEINGS that I KNOW. It was via the internet, but I totally could have called them too. No, really. I’m sure I have the phone number here somewhere.

I was starting to feel like I could totally handle this and it was getting to be time to put all this new found knowledge to the test. But this is where it gets hard, because the only subject available for testing was

me.

Low-Key Self-Portrait. Oh good Lord, next time let the neighbors be home when I need them.

I know you’re just another month, but isn’t it funny all the hope and anxiety and heartburn that goes into you every year?

Thirty days have September, April, June and November…

But you, January! You are thirty-one days of vicissitude. (< My new favorite word. Look it up.)

The new workout, notebook and Christmas sweater are all staring at me, wondering why I’m afraid of them.

You love me too much, January. You have such high hopes for me and I feel like I let you down every time.

So, can we agree to disagree on the workout?

I’ll do the elliptical a few times a week, but let’s ignore anything with the words “race” or “run” in it.

What about the journal?

I love the notebook, but I think a daily journal entry would strangle my spirit, leaving it gasping by the side of the road, whispering gutturally, “Whyyy? Why do you care that I think I have more zits today than yesterday, and that I could kiss the person who invented soft pretzels?” It’s painfully true. Some things are better left unjournaled.

And as for the sweater?

I resolve to wear it and I will love it.

I promise.

Thank you for wanting me to be better. Just for that, here’s a kitty.

Best wishes in the year to come, Marisol!

More importantly, however, is the discovery of my high school journal.

I feel comfortable that you won’t judge me too harshly if I share this little bit. And if you do? Well, you probably weren’t going to ask me to prom either.

February 15, 1987

To preface this vignette, I had worked myself into quite a dither over not being asked to prom. Nobody in the whole world could possibly understand what I was going through (except maybe Samantha Baker and everybody knows she ended up with Jake Ryan anyway, so she wasn’t going to be much help.) And to top it off, the boy I wanted to go with had just asked my friend instead of me, so after a several pages of self-loathing, I finally scribbled:

Why can’t I laugh?

Why does your nose run when you cry?

Why does Neil Diamond turn me off so?

All valid questions in their own right. And in case you were wondering, my feelings for Neil Diamond have not changed in 25 years.

After rediscovering this today, I flashed to the not-so-distant future when our boys unearth this book after I succumb to malaria while attempting to rescue orphaned children on the island of Barbados. (Warmer than Russia and more tropical than Africa. Let’s be realistic here. My selflessness has its boundaries.)

I pictured their faces as they skimmed each mortifying page.

And that’s when I decided tonight would be a good night for a bonfire.

But something made me turn the page one more time.

By the way, that’s called cursive handwriting. Let me know if you need a translation.

I had never seen this before. This is not my handwriting. It’s not my sisters’, or my mother’s. In fact, I’m pretty sure my mom gave up listening to Stryper long before October 1988.

You see, I was in my first semester of college in the Fall of 1988, probably feeling equally as miserable and filled with hatred for Neil Diamond as I was in 1987.

This handwriting must belong to my college roommate…

WHO READ MY JOURNAL.