Tales from the Shoebox.

This may come as a surprise, but I really don’t think of myself as all that hotshit. I know I’m smart, that can be independently verified. But physically, I have a really really hard time thinking of myself as anything more than average at best. It’s only been recently that I can look in the mirror and honestly think I look good that particular day. I still have a hard time with photos. I look at them and can pick out every flaw, every bit that isn’t quite right. It’s all I see when I see photos of myself. The hair out of place, the glasses slipped down my nose, the zit on my chin, the roll on my belly because I’m slouching, the skin so pale I’m reflective in sunlight. The giant moles here there and everywhere. I’m the one using the camera, not the one in front of it, not usually. If I let you take pictures of me, it means I trust you completely. I trust that you will delete and/or destroy any images of me that are unflattering, images that show me in anything other than the best light.

That said…

A few weeks ago, I went to karaoke.

I was drunk.

I don’t sing, especially not in public, but as I was getting ready to leave, hoping against hope that my card had been lost, the hostess called my name. And I got up there and I flatly belted a horrible song, and left. And cried in the car.

Did I mention I was drunk?

So then, a few days ago, Mr. Serious gets an e-mail from the editor of a paper, who happens to be his friend. My picture made the story, can she have my name? NO ABSOLUTELY NOT. MAYBE IF YOU TELL HER IT’S PENNY LANE. OR ANNA BELLE. He calls me a wuss. “If you’re going to do something, do it all the way.” Uh, how about NO.

I’d rather not commemorate, publicly, one of the most embarrassing moments of my adult life, kthxbai.

They ran the picture anyway, sans name, which is sloppy journalism, if you ask me.

They. Ran. The. Picture. Anyway.

The completely unflattering (could I slouch more? And what the Hell is up with my hair? And I’m wearing the nice bra, why are my boobs sagging so much? And good lord why did they use the one with my lips pursed like that?) commemoration of the most mortifying thing I’ve done in years is on the fucking internet.

To top it off, the folds in my pants make it look like I have a boner.

And no, I won’t link you to it.

Dear journalists:

FUCK OFF.

No love,

Me