Blurred Lines

I watched a French film call Dear Mother over the weekend. The premise is a man has had his heart completely stop and is informed he has three days to get it started again.  Only one thing will work, a photograph of his mother’s vagina.  His mother is 82 and he has not seen her much in the past fifteen years.  The rest of the story is about his various ideas and attempts at acquiring said photo.  It is crude and funny and farcical as only a French film can be.  I could hear my mother guffawing in my head and then having it turn into a wail of laughter.  She would have loved it.

But would she have been willing to allow me to snap the picture I needed?  It could not be digital, it had to be printed.  The part of me that knows she adored me and would have done anything to keep me alive says, “Yes.” Then there was the part of my mother and her view of the world that would have turned me down or at least really made me work for the shot.  I do not think she would have attempted a selfie. She would have wanted me to “make an effort” since it was for my own benefit.

Then the co-dependent part of my personality floated to the surface. I thought maybe it would be nice of us all to take the photo and have it printed because it could happen to someone we love in the future and they might need it.  I have no children, but I was still thinking that it would be a service to have it done and filed “just in case.” What would be the harm?  It would not have to remain on your phone as it needs to be printed, so it would not be found if by some chance you end up being a cold case and they have to open your phone to solve your murder.  And if we are gone, what difference does it really make?

It was appropriate also that I watched the movie on the weekend that Meatloaf left this mortal coil. 

I would do anything for love,

but I (probably) won’t do that.