Skip to main content

Pictures don't have to be worth a thousand words

Let's jam for a second.


Mr. Gaffigan* has a point up there. How many of us walk around feeling like we're all that and a bag of chips (mmmm chips…), and we either see a picture of ourselves or see ourselves in the mirror and we're like "Gah! Who IS that?!"? I know I've had those days. Lots, and lots, and lots of those days.

Shoot, I felt that way about some of my wedding pictures. Terrible, right? Greatest day of my life to date, I received tons of compliments and felt like a mermaid princess the day of, and I see certain pictures and my illusion was shattered.

It had absolutely nothing to do with my photographer, but with my own perception of myself.

It makes me wonder which matters more: how I actually look, or how I think I look. Does one matter more than the other? A friend of mine and I were talking about this article, as the author so eloquently states something so many women (and probably men!) can relate to:

"How is it possible that a double chin can overpower the beauty of a mother cuddling her child? How does arm fat distract from the perfect shot of a spontaneous hug? I swear y’all . . . how is it that we can put more value on a TUMMY ROLL than the captivating way you throw yourself into a roar of laughter during a shoot?"

I can't count the amount of pictures that I found adorable because of a friend I was with, and terrible because of my 6,000 chins ruining it. But did my friend see it that way? No, they saw a wonderful memory of 2 goofballs.

Did my family or friends look at any particular wedding picture and think "Geez. Heifer"? Well, hopefully not. My husband couldn't stop smiling, my parents lauded the happiness expressed between 2 weirdos who found each other in this big crazy world, and my friends were all overjoyed for us.

But sadly, we do it to ourselves, and I wonder if it's a type of self-defense mechanism. Maybe if we address what we think other people are thinking about us, it'll get the "awkward turtle" out of the way and we can move on. No? Just me? OK. I know I do it. It's why I used to make fat jokes about myself in college. If I say what I think you're thinking, it makes it OK.

Why can't we just look at a picture for what it is, be it 2 friends, a husband and wife, a friend with a baby, and love it for what it is? Don't sit there and pick apart what you think is wrong with yourself in it. Just love the moment it captured. Love that you have a tangible memory.

Oh, also, if someone catches a picture of you stuffing your gob with a cookie or brownie as it's prone to happen this time of the year, let it happen. Enjoy that darn cookie/brownie/cake pop. Be gentle with yourself. Anyone that's judging you isn't a true friend, and anyone that is a true friend is glad you had a good time.

So, my challenge for you dear friends, is to find a picture of a moment that you don't like of yourself. Look at it again, but look past whatever you think is "wrong" with it. Remember how you felt when it was taken. THAT is the point of a picture. Not to make you feel bad about yourself, but to make you feel good about your life. 

xo
A Redhead

*Note: Jim Gaffigan is a hilarious comedian and author that I love love love. I read his book, and it's as awesome as his stand-up is. Also, Jim (if I may), you should give me a thousand bucks for this unsolicited endorsement. It's just a thought. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Shame Eating

I found the above image on the interwebs and it always makes me laugh. All.the.time. It's kinda true though, right? IF you've ever had any kind of food addiction then you know the sweet sweet embrace of "one more" handful of kettle corn (ahem), or "one more" piece of bread, or whatever . I was joking with my co-worker that I might as well be shame eating out of the Costco-sized bag of Kettle corn on my counter in the dark, licking the sweet and salty remnants off my fingers. That I can't be trusted alone with it. That I grab a bigger-than-small bowl and PILE it up, lamenting the few rogue pieces that make it to the floor. Another colleague overheard us and said she used to do that with angel food cake. She would sit it on the passenger side and just drive, picking at the fluffy confection. I know a girl who could knock out an entire family size container of Sara Lee pound cake. So friends, those are a few confessions. Using the powers of anonym

Not really proud...

(Redhead's Note: Please forgive anything that's more lame than normal, or anything that sounds weird; I'm on a constant regimen of cough syrup...) I started getting a chest tickle on the 8th, which quickly escalated to a hacking cough, and now 6 days later has my left nostril clogged. I'm sick. Lame sauce, I know. When I'm sick I'm kind of a pathetic being: I get whiny, I'm tired all the time, I'm fairly selfish ("Your car died?? But... But...  I'm sick ....") * - it's not a pretty sight. What else tends to happen is I will eat a lot. I'm not one of those people that gets sick and doesn't eat for 3 days. Oh if only! Nope, I'm that girl that gets sick and will find every last semblance of comfort food, and vacuum it up into my sick mouth hole. Handful of chocolate chips? Don't mind if I do. A small-ish spoon of Nutella? Yes please? 4 lbs of bread? Why don't mind if I do! Thankfully the only real example f

He Likes Big Butts and He Cannot Lie!

Do I have any fellow big booty girls in the audience? Or I suppose big booty brothers? Maybe? Anywho. I've had a rather prodigious posterior for my entire life. I think part of it is that I've always been a fat kid, and part of it is probably genetics. Even when I lost weight in high school, it was still pretty hefty. In fact, I recall walking with a friend of mine and hearing 2 guys behind us talking. "Look at that fat a**", his friend said "where" and the other guy said "the one on the right". I was, of course, the girl on the right. It's a moment that's resonated within me for a long time. That happened in probably 2003 while I was a young 16 year old, and 10 years later it's still a moment that occasionally wraps me up in it's insecure and hateful arms. It didn't help that a year or so later I was in a parking lot with friends, feeling cute in a spaghetti string tank top and jeans, and a complete stranger  drove by