I hate having my picture taken. I always have. Well, correction: I don’t mind having my picture taken, I just almost always hate the result.
I’m not sure I’ve EVER taken a picture, where upon seeing it, I’ve immediately said, “Wow! That is a great picture of me!” Pictures have to ‘grow’ on me, and then after looking at them for awhile, I decide that the picture is not really *that* horrible, and that it might be ‘passable’. Possibly even mildly cute. A decade usually does the trick.
Years ago (and several pounds ago!), when Phil and I had our engagement pictures taken, I hated the proofs when they came back. I hated every last one of them, and was pissed that we’d spent so much money on our little photographer out of Westlake. But the more I went back to look at them, the more I started to like them. Now, looking at the picture that we chose as our ‘official’ engagement shot, I love it. We both look so cute (and young… and skinny… and starry-eyed…. and in love…. and did I mention ‘skinny’?!) It’s absolutely one of my favorite pictures we’ve ever taken together. Not that I don’t just love the dozens of “Photo Tech!” pictures from all those college fraternity parties we went to…(rolling eyes )
And isn’t it ironic (don’cha think) that someone that loves to scrapbook as much as I do, so totally hates pictures of herself? But unless I want my children to look back at their scrapbooks when they’re older and wonder where the heck Mommy was during all the important events in their life (‘in the bathroom…again?’) I’ve just had to learn to suck it up and put pictures of myself (that I do not always like) into their books. And truthfully, when I look back at their albums, I often think, “Why did I hate that picture so much? It’s really not that bad....”
Other people can look at pictures of me, and say, “That’s a cute picture!” To which it’s usually difficult for me not to say, “Ugh. Barf.” (not really a very ladylike way to accept a compliment). I know, I know… I’m too critical. And I guess it doesn’t help that I have a tendency to act incredibly goofy for pictures. I just get this irresistible desire to cross my eyes and stick out my tongue whenever a camera is pointed in my direction (sorry, Dona, for the incident with your cell phone. Hollah!)
Some people look amazing in every picture they take. So, understandably, I hate them. And I do not let them be my friends. Oh, I might be nice to them, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I delete them off my digital camera when they’re not looking. And I sure don’t put them in my scrapbooks. I certainly don’t want to look at their flawless skin and beauty queen hair for the next 50 years. Of course, by then, I’ll be so senile, it won’t really matter.
I just wish I’d been born with that photogenic gene. ‘Whaaaat?!! A gene?’ Well, yes, of course. Didn’t you know that it’s part of your genetic code as to whether or not you can take good pictures? Hence the ‘genic’ in ‘photogenic’. (Like….duuuh!)
My three children, of course, all have the photogenic gene (well, of course they do… as I’m sure yours do too!), but they certainly do not get it from me. And judging by pictures of my wonderful, handsome husband sporting his mohawk in high school, I’m not entirely certain they got it from him, either. My punky little children, God bless their hearts, are completely, utterly gorgeous. And as long as they are in the picture with me (usually all in front of me… kids make good camouflage), it makes it a whole lot easier to love those pictures.
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