My old Canon Digital EOS Rebel died unexpectedly a week ago Saturday. Even though the old girl – the very first Canon Rebel released and quite the looker in her day – had a long and productive life, saying good-bye was sad, sad, sad.
Why?
Well, the death was my fault. I know using the internet to make a diagnosis isn’t wise (I even advise against it in my new book), but in this case, the World Wide Web had the answer: the shutter box was worn out. It seems the old film cameras never had this problem, back in the day when photographers snapped fewer pictures due to the cost of film and developing. But these days, the shutter box often dies on digital cameras. Especially if the photographer is shutter happy. Like me. Which means I killed my Canon Rebel.
But that’s not the worst of it.
For the past few months, I’d been wishing the old, heavy, clunky Rebel would die. That it would be more cost-effective to buy a new camera than to fix the old one. Then I could purchase a younger, slimmer model to drape around my neck. A snappy little trophy camera with bells and whistles guaranteed to impress onlookers.
Now, that line of thinking seems disgusting. Cheap. Calloused.
Then again, I had to have a new camera. I can’t photograph food for Wednesday’s recipe without one. I’ve missed a bazillion shots of the fall colors. I was at the mercy of other photographers at this past weekend’s reunion with three high school besties.
This is no way to live.
So before taking the lens off the old camera, before emptying the memory card of the last photos it took, before calling the insurance company to remove it from the personal items policy, the new camera body was ordered and on it’s way here.
It felt good. Really good.
So good, I can hardly wait for the new camera arrives. We’ll go on a special excursion together, hunt for the perfect picture, totally engrossed in one another and the moment. The memory of the old camera will be a tender, fleeting gratitude at most. Nothing more. Cause down deep, that’s the kind of woman I am. Heartless. Fickle. Self-serving.
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