Tonight we had the misfortune of having to get our picture made for the church directory.
I detest having my picture taken. Absolutely HATE it! If I was photogenic then I might feel differently, but I am probably one of the worst-looking people in pictures, ever. I don't think I'm ugly; I just don't look like myself in pictures. Even people who love me take one look at a photograph and are like, "my gosh, you really don't take good pics, do you?" and I simply agree because I know they're right. I compensate by remaining behind the camera as much as possible, but unfortunately, I couldn't get out of this one.
So tonight, once again, I expended significant energy in preparation for this sitting because what's miserable about church directories is that everyone not only sees your picture, but they hang onto these books forever, much like a high school yearbook. We finally rush out the door and get to church, and even though I felt like I couldn't have looked any better, I was still in a pretty rotten mood. Photo sessions do that to me.
We bust it to get there by 7:30 at our designated appointment time only to find several groups still waiting in line ahead of us. Of course, one group is an extended family of eight, and they have to have pics taken in every conceivable combination of family members, each combination with several different poses. Keep in mind that I have not even had dinner yet. I am growing more impatient and obnoxious by the minute. Husband finds a deck of cards laying around and tries to distract me with a game of rummy while we wait for the supermodels to finish with their cover shoot. The distraction of the cards worked for a few hands while I kicked his butt.
An hour later, it's our turn at last. I take my place on the ubiquitous black stool and try my best to be pleasant, polite, and smiling beautifully while being maneuvered into uncomfortable positions against my will. Then there's the whole commanding photographer bit: "Amber, move your head towards your husband. No, the other way. No, chin up a bit. Up a little more. Now back. OK, never mind, I'm coming!". Now I know how it feels to be the dog in the bottom of his class in obedience school.
I am finally released from the posing, and Mr. Chipper Photographer asks my dear husband to remain seated while he snaps a few individual shots of him. And I'm just standing there thinking... why? We're not buying any pictures... we spent a gazillion bucks on engagement and wedding pics just a few years ago and we really don't look that different now. And oh great, he's going to try to sucker me in next. I don't need any individual shots of myself. The only reason one might be necessary would be to place it in my obituary, but I don't plan on dying anytime soon.
Dude says to me: OK! Your turn! (Pats ubiquitous stool)
Me: No, thank you.
Dude: Oh, come on! (Pats stool again)
Me: I don't need any pictures of myself, but thank you anyway for offering to take them.
Dude: Why not? It'll only take a second!
Me: That second is a waste of our time. I'm not interested and I'm not sitting for any more pictures.
Dude: (Gives pleading look to husband)
Wise Husband: She's determined. I know my wife.
Dude gives up.
We are then shuffled to the line behind the supermodels to preview our pictures. By this point, I am practically growling. I hear Papa John calling my name, and all I want to do is answer.
I had high hopes that somehow these pictures would be the first in years that actually capture me well, however, once again the girl I saw on the screen was definitely not the same image that I saw in the mirror just a short time before. Not sure what keeps happening. Quantum leap, perhaps?
