Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Strike A Pose...Umm..No

Morning Readers,

     There was a giant commotion on my porch yesterday afternoon. Not being the type to ignore a giant commotion, I ran to the front door, flung it open and what did I find? Reporters, camera men, fashion scouts from Milan, and Mary Heart from E.T all wanting a picture of little, old me... Oh. Wait.... No, no... I'm sorry, that was the nightmare I had last night, which vividly embodied one of my uber fears. Because there's something about a lens pointed in my general direction that causes my hair to recede and my skin crawl in fear.  Unlike a sorority sister eight beer bongs in, I don't make love to the camera; I look for a Louisville Slugger so I may delicately "Ike Turner" it to death. Unfortunately, yesterday was a great reminder that I just may have to make piece with the Devil's instrument.

      She was nice. That was unfortunate. If she hadn't been holding the round, plastic death device with the eye on it, she may have been someone I would've traded stories with, showed pictures of my kids, joined some sort of quirky, stroller-jogging-moms-day-out sort of class with. But the pot of resentment had already begun to boil over; its contents displayed clearly in my knit eyebrows and pouty expression. Why did getting a swim pass require the same type of personal identification as a passport? I wasn't planning on smuggling Cuban cigars into the baby pool...so why Lord? Why?
     I'm friends with a fair amount of photographers, who no doubt, are spending this post re-evaluating our friendship, and erasing lunch dates from day planners. But the select few, like my small group of best friends, won't judge. They know I've been scarred for life. They know that when I scream "Camera! Every one out of the water!" and start running a 5K back to my house, it's coming from a place of bad school pictures, horrid work IDs and the complex delicately nursed when one realizes that one has six other sisters that should be posing for Vogue.
      I've been told I, "overreact", that, "everyone" feels like that, "small children won't be frightened by my face". All helpful comments, and the meager threads I grasp onto when I do things like stand against a blue screen, try not to smile like an escaped mental patient, and wait for a hot piece of plastic that lifeguards will use to identify the "weird lady that comes here all the time."
     If you're wondering, the finished product was pretty frightening. Not as bad as my first work ID (that's still the stuff of office legend), but bad enough that when Husband said I looked, "hot", I couldn't look at him, for fear that his gaze was actually directed towards town hall's "Rules for hot water conservation".
     Though, as I mentioned before, I may have to come to terms with my fear. Lately, I've been contemplating *gasp* putting a picture of myself on this very website. Revered, writerly websites have made the suggestion that an author should do her best to put a face to a name and not rely on avatars, cartoons, or sassy-drawn, red-headed, 1940s type ladies to represent their likeness - this may come as a shock to you, my Readers, but I don't actually have red hair. *hangs head* I'm so sorry. Within the next couple of months, however, I'll be posting a picture and resigning myself to accepting the camera and shedding my cartoon image.....prospectively..

Until Next Time Readers!