So I’m sitting here, facing hours of work ahead of me. Jet lag, even though it’s supposed to be gone by now, makes me a) weary b) unmotivated and c) ravenous at bizarre hours. And in this case, it’s a combination of all three. So instead of writing up the meeting notes like I SHOULD be doing, I’m instead going through my photos trying to find a picture of myself that I don’t abhor.
I hate every single one of them.
I’ve been photographed since I was just a few hours old; my father, a former freelance photographer, enjoyed capturing every piece of drool his darling baby girl produced. There’s infant me, resembling a baby bird, then moving on to baby me, where I was fed far too much and resembled a baby hippo. Through the years we see the progression of my evolution – the loss of the auburn curls, replaced by a straighter, blonder coif; the (thankful!) loss of the jowels and arm rolls being replaced by a normal-sized, knee-sock wearing 5-year old at Chuck-E-Cheese.
Then we head off to the awkward years (pictures withheld to protect the embarrassed) where a Jessica McClintock dress was the perfect compliment to an unfortunate bob, braces, and two broken wrists. (I only wish this accident-prone gal was kidding.) On to High School, then college, where skorts were apparently en vogue and ’twas never too late to stay out. (I’ll withhold those as well.)
And here I am, trying to find a photo of me to upload for my SXSW badge, and the only ones I like are from when I was a child. I look at each of my current photos and my inner negative monologue takes over:
I look fat.
What’s that extra chin doing there?
WHY did I wear that?
…and on, and on, and on. Seriously, I’m sure most people would glance at them, but with my hypercritical evil eye, I think they’re all repulsive.
Is this normal? Do most people do this?
Regardless – I think I’ve found the perfect picture. What says "Aubrey" better than a personalized hat?