Being fifty-something, I’m starting to think that there are already too many photo’s of me in this world.
If I was never captured on film (or in pixels) again, the world wouldn’t shift from its axis and I’d be happy enough to be remembered by my pre-fifty-something snapshots. Which is saying something … most of them are shockers.
Let’s face it … who becomes more photogenic with age?
That’s why it was left to the younger generation to suggest we engage a professional photographer to capture a family portrait.
My niece E tells me she was inspired by this earlier blogpost of mine.
Maybe I should have thought that one through more.
How could we say “no”? E was organising it all, had picked a tentative date and had the perfect photographer worded up.
Next Sunday is the day.
It’s looming like an ominous, dark thunderhead on the not-so-far-off horizon.
I’m not ready.
I haven’t lost that 15kg I’d hoped to. (I know: there is not enough spandex in this hemisphere to fix that by Sunday.)
I haven’t grown long flowing Rapunzel-style locks.
I’m looking untanned (some might say pale and wan; I probably have a vitamin D deficiency, to boot).
I haven’t had that crown replaced on that molar (the one that’s been missing now for more than two years).
I feel a pimple coming on just near my lip (surely one outgrows pimples by fifty-something?)
I don’t have a stunning super-photogenic outfit in my wardrobe (not one that fits, anyway).
Still, we have a very loose dress-code, which I’m hoping will work in my favour.
I’m thinking black. Sleek. Slimming. Fade-into-the-background. Invisible.
Maybe a splash of colour to draw attention away from … well, everything.
In a group photo, getting the outfits right hardly ever happens. I just hope we can avoid something like this:
Sunday is looming fast. I’ve mentally noted some tips for the day (to hopefully avoid some of those inevitable “why didn’t I just …?” moments after the event, when the portraits have been printed in super-size and framed underglass for future generations to view).
Come click-time, I’ll be:
- standing tall
- sucking my belly in
- pushing my chin out and head forward (to unfold those extra chins and swan-ify my neck)
- hiding my chicken-feet hands behind my back
- turning slightly to the side (obviously)
- attempting a graceful ballet-girl stance of some sort (but probably toppling over)
- jostling for a position at the back (but probably toppling over)
- fluffing some volume into my hair at the sides
- checking I don’t have a cocky’s crest of spiky hair on top
- slapping on some lip gloss (lots of it)
- trowelling concealer all over that pimple
- smiling as graciously, genuinely and widely as I can without revealing the toothy gap or emphasising the crow’s feet
Mostly, I’ll be looking skywards and hoping with all my might for the clouds to part and a shaft of Doris-Day-lens-perfect-softening-light to shine its loving little heart down on us.
All of us.
Bring it on.