Queen of . . .

Okay, I blushingly admit I am the Queen of Micromanaging.

Sunday was a day of revelations. And not the church kind when you’re listening to your pastor and God highlights something that explodes with wonder in your heart. Your eyes get a little wider and you want to nudge everyone around you and ask, “Did you get that? No, I mean did you really get what he just said?”

This was more like an out-of-body experience when you become an outside observer to your own behavior. Where you want to slap yourself on the forehead and yell, “Grow up!”

I’m pretty sure my husband was thinking the same thing.

You see, I’m having a web site designed and after studying one of the pages my designer sent me, I decided it’d look a whole lot better if I’d been wearing a different outfit.

What had I been thinking when I picked out that shirt all those months ago? I wanted to hit rewind and go back to the day I had the pictures professionally snapped and put on something more elegant.

Then inspiration struck.

I could retake the pictures. I, of course, meaning me and tall, dark and handsome (hereafter known as TDH).

Thirty seconds into the shoot (that’s the professional term for a photography session), I was wishing I could clone myself and be both in front of and behind the camera. But I managed pretty well at directing things from where I stood in the perfect outfit.

Okay, maybe not so perfect.

Three outfits later, I was back in my model pose, waiting for TDH to straighten up from pulling weeds in our yard, my camera dangling around his neck. He patiently resumed his position in front of the tree I leaned against.

I cleared my throat, tilted my head and pasted another lovely smile on my face.

That’s when things started to unravel.

Of course, I needed to see every shot he took. He was too far away, and then too close. Then he decided to experiment from unique angles that made my head look bigger than my body.

I muttered the cloning comment. He muttered something I couldn’t hear. His smile, ever patient, grew thinner and tighter.

Did I mention that this went on for two days? There hadn’t been enough sun Saturday for the pictures to turn out well. Sunday morning it rained. I agonized through church that I’d be forever stuck in a web page in that hideous shirt.

But fortunately the sun peeked out for minutes at a time Sunday afternoon. I hair-sprayed and lip-sticked myself back up and we went at it again.

I told myself before we started that I would keep my mouth shut, smile prettily and let him take the pictures.

I tried. I truly did.

That’s where the out-of-body experience occurred. I didn’t want to micromanage him. It’s just that I thought I knew best how to do it.

My alter ego, wearing the black and white stripes of a referee, was blowing the whistle and shouting, “Boundary crossing.” The whistle blew again. “Control penalty.”

Ei-Yi-Yi. I wanted to duct tape my mouth shut. And I wasn’t the only one.

We got the pictures taken. He still loves me. He understands me and knows I’m trying to tame the control beast.

And I’m hoping for sun tomorrow. I think the red shirt really would look better . . .