|
|
 |
|
The views expressed on this page are soley
those of the author and do not
necessarily represent the views of County
News Online
|
 |
Broke Wife, Big City
This is my face
By Aprill Brandon
My son has spent approximately 1,277 days on this Earth. My daughter,
roughly 455. Counting the ones I took today, I have exactly 18 billion
photos of them.
Oops. Sorry. 18 billion and one. They just did the cutest thing, you
guys.
And they look amazing in every single one of these photos, even
including the newborn “Benjamin Button” ones.
(No, YOU’RE bias).
By contrast, I have been alive on this planet for about 13,200 days.
Thanks to the invention of the selfie, there are now probably 18
billion photos of me floating around too. The only difference is, I
like seven of them. Actually, more like six (in that one photo, my eyes
are doing that weird thing).
Yes, I know. Female hates how she looks in photos! Shocker!
This revelation is right up there with me admitting my feet are always
cold and that I don’t understand the appeal of “Entourage.” But I bring
this up for a very good reason. Because I have recently come to terms
with some vital facts and it has made a huge difference.
I’m 36. This is my face. I need to get over it.
Now, if those three above sentences don’t seem like a revelation to
you, congratulations, you are likely a man or a well-adjusted,
confident woman. However, if you’ve ever taken 100 almost identical
photos of yourself and then agonized for hour and a half about which
one to post and then spent another 33 minutes trying out different
Instagram filters to find the one that thins out your face the most,
then you understand how huge this is.
I have wasted so much of my life either trying to micromanage every
single photo I appear in or avoiding cameras all together. Because all
I saw in every photo of me was every flaw a single human body could
possibly house. Too fat in this one. Nose all wonky in this one. Too
pale. Stomach rolls. Greasy hair. No makeup. Arm flab. Dumb smile.
Double chin. Triple chin. Everywhere a chin, chin. Crow’s feet (or, in
some lighting, the whole damn crow). Forehead pimple. Bad posture.
Crooked teeth.
I can go on…
Dark circles under my eyes. Cellulite. Sausage fingers. Flat hair. Dull
hair. Frizzy hair. Freckles. Acne. Acne scars. Thin lips. Fat thighs.
That weird flub that hangs out around the side of your bra.
Yeah. It’s exhausting hating how you look in photos. Especially in this
social media era where photos are taken and shared roughly every 2.3
seconds.
And so, I decided to just let go. Let it all go. Let go of the iron
grip I was using to try to hold onto the face that got shared in
public. BECAUSE TECHNICALLY IT’S ALL THE SAME FACE.
This is my face. This is my body. And in every photo, that is how I
look at that particular moment.
Guys. GUYS. The freedom that comes with this revelation...you guys…such
a weight has been lifted.
I’m now more than willing to let my husband take a picture of me
playing with the kids when I’m in my pajamas and sporting my best Swamp
Witch hair. Because I want to remember that moment. And because, yes,
some days I look like a Swamp Witch.
Now when a parent wants a photo of me, I don’t say “how about later,
when I look better?” I shut up and pose.
And now when my friends whip out that cell phone, I smile and BOOM.
That’s it. Done. No more “let me see it” followed immediately by “let’s
take another one” followed by “let me see it” followed by “let’s take
another one” followed by “let me see it” followed by nothing because we
are dead because we got caught in this stupid loop and couldn’t get out
because no matter how many photos we took, we magically never ended up
looking like Angelina Jolie.
(Which is so dumb. Because even if we did look like Angelina Jolie, we
still can’t afford Angelina Jolie’s stylist, meaning we still wouldn’t
look like Angelina Jolie.)
Of course, every road that leads to brilliant revelations like this one
are full of potholes. I mean, do I still want people to only post
photos of me where I look good? Of course. I’m still embarrassingly
vain. But now, if they don’t, it no longer bothers me because it’s more
important to me to be part of the picture. To be part of that memory.
To have people in my life that want to take a photo with me at all,
than it is to look great in it.
Oh god...guys...is this...is this what being well-adjusted feels like?
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
|
|
|
|
