Yes—this is a crappy selfie I took tonight. After a good look at my holiday pic, I decided I’d made my point about aging without tweaks. Tweaks are okay, and maybe I’ll have some, soon. The neck, at least. NOT retouching your photos only hurts the one you love. Well, it hurts me, honestly. Actually, B. is the one who gets hurt. He has to listen to my screaming as I insist I certainly do not look “like that.” He is always too kind to respond: ”You are over sixty! What do you expect from a photograph now?” I loved having my picture taken when I was young. And B.– big surprise!–was an excellent photographer. (There’s really nothing he can’t do.) I’m like the classic old story that has been attributed to everybody from Pickford to Dietrich to Hedy to Crawford. After sitting for a session, one of the ladies supposedly said: “These are not as good as what you did the last time.” The photographer replies: “Well, Mary/Hedy/Marlene/Joan–I’m ten years older now.”
Yeah. I know. Whatever my issues, I’m not Dietrich. You just had to say it, right?
So this is how I prefer to think of myself. Kinda blurry, over-lit. In my cluttered room. 62.