And now it is just past 4 pm and I am having a cocktail.
Yes, it is that bad. You can scroll down now if you want to, but I recommend coming with me on a little stumble down memory lane first.
Passport photos did not always make me want to go into hiding, or to move someplace where face-covering burkhas are de rigeur. In fact, my first passport photo at age 2 was downright precious:
Despite the fact that I'm not looking directly into the camera and have Children of the Corn eyes, this remains my most flattering passport photo to date.
I have this hanging on my wall, along with my parents' passport photos from that same session. Looking at my parents might have cautioned me that anyone over the age of ten should just stay in the country.
Sorry for posting this Mom and Dad! I get my comeuppance a little farther down, I promise.
My dad looks like he's getting a prostate exam. My mom looks pretty... pretty stoned!
My next passport, taken at age 13, I cannot find. I looked all over my apartment, I swear. In it, I am wearing a pinstriped oversize men's dress shirt beneath a salmon-colored sweatshirt. My unibrow is in full effect, I am grinning (revealing my royal blue-colored braces), and I am also gazing inexplicably upwards, as if trying to beam the full Care Bare Stare of my adolescent awkwardness straight to Jesus. I am actually really bummed that I cannot post this terrible photo, as it might ease the pain of the photo taken today.
Here's an approximation:
I call this "The Fran Lebowitz."
Then of course my next passport bore the disaffected photo I posted as party of my New Year's reflection on my twenties:
Which brings us to today's photo. Before I show it to you, I'd like to preemptively blame a few things.
- I blame the weather, which forced me to wear a wool hat all day that flattened out my hair, which I still haven't learned how to blow dry properly.
- I blame my employer, for not paying me enough for me to afford to cut said hair on a regular basis. My coif currently resembles Medusa's after a week in the woods with no shampoo.
- I blame the cartilage in my nose for continuing to grow as I age.
- I blame my mirror, for failing to adequately reflect the way I looked as I left the house. Had I known I looked like this, I never would have left, would have started drinking immediately, and probably would have attempted to give myself Botox using the Gorilla glue in the pantry.
- I blame the photo-taking man, who forbade me to smile. Obviously I would have looked exactly like Catherine Zeta-Jone if I had only been allowed to show my teeth.
Doesn't this look suspiciously like a mug shot? If I told you I had been arrested for getting stoned and driving through a car wash with the top down, would you doubt me for even ONE SECOND?
Also, see what happens when I try to look like a sailor? Note to self: IT DOES NOT MAKE YOU LOOK JAUNTY. IT MAKES YOU LOOK JAUNDICED.
Oh, and the worst part? They're multiplying:
I think it goes without saying that I am going to eat the $10 and not send this to the government. If I had to look at this every time I got ready to board an airplane, the resulting death wish might give the flight bad juju.