I don’t take a pleasant picture.
The pictures in which I look pretty good are random coincidences.
Like snow rollers or crop circles.
I come by it honestly.
My gramma, God rest her beautiful soul, rarely took an excellent picture in her entire life.
Therefore, most likely my children will forget what I look like when I am dead.
Because there is very little photographic proof of how bad a picture I take.
I see all these cute selfies with moms and their offspring everywhere.
Me + a good selfie is like Oprah Winfrey at a Dollar Tree.
Never the two shall meet.
It is one of my imperfections.
I am OK with it daily.
But when it is time for me to smile at the Birdy?
I overcompensate for it.
You know those romantic pictures of couples trying to take a selfie on the beach?
I do not know what you are talking about.
It looks like I don’t even know the man kissing me.
Because overcompensating for a crooked smile.
Normal people look whimsical in a selfie on a beautiful summer day with a bestie.
I look like I am in pain.
Often, I just give up.
And take pictures of my knees.
Or of my feet.
Here they are in Kentucky.
And here is a collage of them.
Or I look high.
Or my hair is in my face.
STOP ASKING ME TO TAKE SELFIES.
Until I had my first professional headshot taken last weekend.
For my Listen To Your Mother experience.
PRETEND THERE IS A PICTURE HERE
I want her to follow me around everywhere I go.
I wish I could have her take all my selfies.
Well, then I guess they wouldn’t be selfies by definition.
You get the picture.
See what I did there?
I am a person who can appreciate a good hair/makeup/face/boob/outfit picture.
And cherish it.
Now my kids will know what I looked like.