I was walking at the park, halfway up the hill, when the object fell from a tree onto the middle of the road.  I thought it was a leaf at first, fall having arrived, but, when I leaned over to inspect it, I saw that it was a fuzzy caterpillar in this unique creamy-white color.

Now you would expect, given my renowned weak spot for all creatures (amendment: all creatures with fur) (second amendment: all creatures with fur that don’t eat people or spray foul odors or gross me out), you would expect that I would have rescued this innocent little guy and moved it out of the traffic and into the grass, where it could inch along confiding to its caterpillar buddies its dreams of becoming a butterfly one day.   

But, for reasons I can’t explain, I didn’t pick it up, or move it into the grass, but just left it there to fend for itself.  Instead, I, in me-me-me mode, continued my march up the hill, the whole time thinking, I should go back and rescue him.  But isn’t it crazy to worry about a little ol’ caterpillar?  Some bird will probably have him for a snack by the end of the day, anyway.  But maybe I should go back and rescue him before a car comes along and…

VROOOOOOM.  A monster truck with wheels the diameter of the moon cruised by and almost smooshed me like a…well…caterpillar.  Oh, no!  But maybe the caterpillar was in the one safe spot in between those monster wheels and somehow miraculously survived…maybe I should go back quickly now, before another car comes along and…

VROOOOOOM.  VROOM VROOM VROOOOOOM.  Each vehicle more monstrous than the last. 

I marched along, feeling like a jerk.  More than a jerk.  I’m a…a caterpillar murderer!  I’ve deprived the caterpillar the chance of achieving his butterfly dreams.  He’ll forever be known to his caterpillar friends as just a…caterpillar.  I should turn myself in. 

Around me the birds chirped and the sun shone and children giggled.  What a crummy day.

When I started my second lap up the hill, I decided, as punishment, that I’d make myself look for him.  I kept my eyes peeled on the road, nervous about what I’d find.  He fell somewhere around here, I think, around the middle of the hill.  There he is!  No…just a leaf.  There!  No, bird poop. 

Then I saw it.  A round flat pile of mustard-colored guts.  “Oh, no!” I wailed aloud.  It had to be him.  I mean, he was creamy-white on the outside, but this was the only pile of guts anywhere on the hill, so I guess his guts were the color of mustard.  I looked closer.  The pile looked kind of old, dried up.  I resolved to keep looking, just in case.

By the time I’d reached the top of the hill, I knew it had to be him, that pile of mustard guts, because he was nowhere else to be found.  Unless he’d managed to crawl to safety before…VROOOOOM.  What a crummy day.  I marched along, feeling like a jerk.  I turned up my iPod and played sad songs.  If only I’d…if only.

And then, at the very top of the hill…

There he was.  A creamy-white inch of fuzz, inching along the middle of the road.  Alive and happy and dreaming his butterfly dreams.  It had to be him.  I’d never seen anything like him.  He’d made it all this way without anyone’s help.  Without me.  Despite me.

I knew what I had to do.  I knelt down and let him crawl onto my hand, then carried him over to the grass and let him crawl off into his caterpillar world, where he belonged.  (Well, after unsticking him from my skin.  He didn’t seem to want to leave at first.)

It was a downright miracle.  I turned on a happy song and marched up the hill, grateful for second chances.

What a good day.

I’m dreading this.  I not only detest having my picture taken, I detest having my picture taken by this guy, the guy who takes the pictures for the local attorney directory.  I’m still living down the last one he took of me, the one where my hair resembles Diana Ross during the disco era and my teeth are doctored so it looks like someone spilled a jar of Wite-Out over them. 

I check my hair in the rear-view mirror of my truck before heading into the studio.  Wavy helmet, check.  The problem with getting my attorney photo taken is that, although I graduated from law school, although I passed the bar exam, although I send scary letters and stand before a judge and argue my case, somehow I still don’t *look* like an attorney.  The chronic cat-hair presence on my suit is a factor.  But my hair is the best clue that I’m no Ruth Bader Ginsburg.  See, most female attorneys you know have sensible bobs, or darling pixies, or slick buns.  My hair, um, well — Diana Ross, disco era.  So on attorney photo day, I plaster it with hairspray until it resembles the best I can do — a wavy helmet.

Wavy helmet intact, I cruise the elevator to the studio.  “I noticed you’ve been using some snapshot of yourself with a tree behind you in the last couple of directories,” the photographer asks first thing. 

Who, me?  Use a photo my neighbor took of me in my backyard because it looks a zillion times better than the photo of Wite-Out girl?  “Hmmmm.  Must be someone else,” I mumble.

“The one where your hair is much darker?”

“Um, maybe.  Not sure.  So, where do you want me?”

“Stand right there and I’ll just test the lighting.”  I stand on the taped “X” and practice resembling an attorney.  Think attorney.  Think attorney.  “Ready,” he announces, then raises his eyebrows.  “Oh, but do you want to check your hair first?”

“My hair?  Oh, no.  I just checked it outside.”

“But are you sure you don’t want to check your hair first?”

“Do I need to check my hair?”

“Yes, I think you’ll feel better.  There’s a sort of…odd flip, some fly-aways, not really cooperating…”

“Oh, well, do you have a mirror?”

“No, let me show you the way to the women’s bathroom.”

Of all the humiliating…I follow him and enter the women’s bathroom, imagining that my hair must have been blown by a breeze into some crazy cowlick.  I look in the mirror, expecting a horrific…

Wavy helmet.  Exactly the same as when I left it.

I spot a can of Aqua Net (true story, really) on the counter, the kind in the aerosol can like in 1978 (the kind Diana Ross likely wore).  I spray a thick layer over the wavy helmet until it’s…a particularly hardy wavy helmet.  And march back into the studio.

“Much better,” he says.  “You’ll be ever so glad you did that.  Two things I like about being a photographer: One, I get to stare at people.  And two, I get to critique their appearances.  Har har.”

I take my place back on the “X.”

“Now, then, I typically take three different angles.  Side, front, side.”  He snaps a batch of photos from my best side.  “Hmmm.  I’m guessing another angle will be your best side.  And…” he stares at me for a minute, assessing, frowning.  “Let’s skip the middle angle.  Maybe the other side?” 

I obediently flip to my other side, hoping to expedite the process. 

“Now, if you could smile.  I notice you have this…naturally worried look when you don’t smile.”

My mouth flips into a frown and my eyebrows squeeze together into a worried grimace.  Snap!

“Okay, let’s take a look at what we have.”  He pulls up the shots on his computer and flips through them so I can pick my faves.  Gaaaa!  Gaaaaaaaa!  GAAAAAAAA!  Each is scarier than the next.  “Don’t worry, I’ll touch these up,” he assures.  “For example, I’ll get rid of that deep wrinkle across your neck.  That pimple on your chin, too.”

That night he sends me my top pick, the touched-up version, in case I want to buy it for personal use.  I open it, and a worried helmet-head Amy stares back at me, only my face is extra deathly pasty (but not a wrinkle or a pimple in sight).  GAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! 

I dash off an email to the photographer.  “I’d like to stick with the current snapshot of me, the one where I’m posing in front of a tree.”