I have a friend who is some hot-shot photographer and sometimes he takes photos of events that I am at. He even gets paid to do this, if you can believe. On really special occasions I muscle my way in front of the camera and — apparently — mug like a baboon.
I just had the delightful opportunity to see what an unattractive, dishevelled, bloated dung beetle I looked like at the last event we had. Even when I was smiling.
Gah. ESPECIALLY when I was smiling.
Note to self: emulate Mona Lisa.
I feel like digging up old photographs of myself and pinning them up all over my office, on my car windows, the front and backs of my shirts… to provide evidence that I have not always looked this bad.
For Christ’s sake! I’ve even been jogging something like 10 miles a week for the last three months! You would think I could get SOME relief from dry flaky skin that takes on a winsomely red and blotchy shade under florescent lights. Or get a break from looking like I eat Crisco straight out of the can as a light pick-me-up afternoon snack.
Like there’s anything wrong with that!
So I’ve sent up the batsignal to my fabulously stylish and effortlessly beautiful friend who does my hair and asked for an emergency appointment, although no offence to her in the slightest fat lot of good it’ll do me unless she knows where the reverse switch is on the Big-O-Beam I appear to have been zapped with.
You know, not for nothing, but I AM running in my first ever 5K race this weekend. Do I get no props for this, universe? None? Not a bit?