If you know me, you’ve probably heard me say that I’m The Whitest Woman in The World (with the exception of Faith Partee*). I should add that it’s with the exception (WARNING: Over-sharing ahead) of the times that my OLD HORMONES cause flushy-red-face-weirdness. But never mind that. I am, usually, The Whitest Woman in The World (except, though I’ve not seen her in years, I trust, Faith Partee). Ah – but then – look at THIS:
Yes. That’s me. Un-retouched. Okay – I did darken the white spots in my pupils because I think the image is creepy enough. I know, I know, I have rules (self-imposed) about showing my image on my blog that I’ve only broken maybe twice in over five years. Moreover, for going on half a decade I’ve strongly maintained that I did NOT want to memorialize this era in my life in pictures including me at all. And, as many of you know, I hate pictures of myself PERIOD. That is, in part, because I am not photogenic – no I am NOT; any picture with my eyes open is a small miracle in and of itself.
But I’ve given up. Don’t get me wrong – THIS IS NOT OPEN SEASON FOR PICTURES OF KATE. And I can only write this because my Father will not read this. He has no sense of “personal space” whatsoever when it comes to taking pictures.
So what changed my mind? Well, first, I thought – WHO REALLY CARES. Secondly, I saw a surreptitious shot my Father had taken on Christmas morning and I had, I kid you not, a moment of, “Who is that Lady?” before I realized it was ME. And I do think that despite anything and everything, one SHOULD recognize one’s self in a photograph.
But let me back up a little. AH, the magnanimous spirit of the Holiday season. My Dad had a new camera. And though it was three billion times easier to use than his previous expensive model (which he somehow broke), he still didn’t quite get it. On Christmas Even, I believe, I walked into the office and he BEGGED me to let him take a picture. I believe he bandied about the word “festive” regarding my appearance (sheesh). I rolled my eyes and said, “FINE,” and let him go at it, despite the frizzed/smushed, snowed-on hair and whatnot.
Then I saw the picture and wondered if I should be so laissez-faire about my new photography policy. Remember how I’m The Whitest Woman in The World (with the exception of Faith Partee)? Well, if one is to take this picture seriously, I beat Faith Partee hands down.
It’s a miraculous shot, I must say. It erases my eyebrows to some extent AND my under-eye luggage (I can’t complain about that). Any semblance of colour in my lips – gone… Odd contour shadows about the outside of my face… Oh -but I want everyone to know that despite all my flaws, I do NOT have jowls. Rather, my jawline does not extend forward into a logical, strong conclusion. Instead, I have this pointy little chin THAT I AM NOT AFRAID TO USE. Perhaps it’s to match my pointy tongue… (not FORKED – pointy). But my very favourite thing is that my Father has bestowed open me Owen Wilson’s nose. HOW? I couldn’t tell you. In real life, if you must know, my nose resembles a little potato. Yes, my Father is always funniest when he does not intend it.
So there it is. What the hell.
*Faith, if you should, by some miracle, happen to read this, I mean no offense when I say that you are The Whitest Woman in The World. In fact, I would vote you the head of the Flawless Victorian Complexion Society and would be deliriously happy to be a member (with breaks for when I’m oddly flushy).