I’m eager to show off my new iPhone app that describes peoples’ faces. It does other things, too, like read print and bar codes, but recognizing people is too cool to keep secret.
“Don’t point that thing at me, please,” says my wife, looking up from her book. “I don’t need artificial intelligence telling me I’m a ‘middle-aged woman with curly hair, looking crabby.’ I can figure that out myself.”
“But that’s not how I see you,” I tell her. “To me, you’re still a ‘pretty teenage girl with curly hair, laughing’”
“Honey, what you don’t see won’t hurt you,” says my wife. “Here, smile and I’ll take your picture—‘distinguished gentleman with moustache, looking smug.’”
“Is that what I am now? It’s been so long since I’ve seen myself. What about the rest of me? I know I could stand to lose ten pounds around the middle.”
“Keep going,” says my wife.
“I can’t possibly look like those old codgers I saw, way back when, strutting around the locker room at the golf club—saggy this, hairy that.”
“Hmmm,” says my wife. I want her to cry, “Oh, Hercules, you force of nature!”
“Lumpy here, wrinkly there.”
“My, my.” That’s all she says, though I want her to say more.
“At least I haven’t gotten any tattoos or piercings.”
“Why would you?” she says. “You couldn’t see them anyway.”
“And I don’t wear tank tops or spandex like other guys my age.”
“Honey,” says my wife, taking my face in her hands, “you are my dream of delight.”
“And you are mine,” I reply. “Beauty is in the heart of the beholder.”
“Now, take that camera away,” says my wife. “Snap a shot of the dog. ‘Black Lab with gray chin whiskers, looking hungry.’”
So I stroll away, still eager to show off my new app, calling, “Randy, if you let me take your picture, I’ll give you a biscuit!”