The Picture

“Is this you?” the guy at Muv Fitness asked, as he attempted to turn his computer screen in my direction.  “It doesn’t look like you.”

 
I was on the other side of the counter and since his computer screen was more than 2 inches from my nose, I couldn’t see it.  “I don’t know.  I can’t see it.”

The guy, let’s call him “Chad” looked back and forth between the screen and me. “Yeah, it’s you.  I think.  See?”

I couldn’t.

Muv Fitness had recently acquired my Gold’s Gym.  Chad was trying to convert my Gold’s key card to Muv and had to be 100% positive that I was the person on the screen.

“It looks like you’re wearing a horse t-shirt,” he observed.   “Do you have a horse t-shirt?  But I’m not sure it’s you.”
 
“Must be me.  I’ve got a horse t-shirt.”
 
“But it doesn’t look like you.  Well, it kind of does.”
 
I decided to take the bull by the horns.  “Can I walk behind the counter and look?”
 
He said, “Sure!!”
 
When I got to the computer I screamed in horror.  

Yes it was me, but I looked like I’d just stepped out of a box under the thru-way where I’d been living for 5 years.

All I could say was, “That’s not a horse.  That’s the Beast,” pathetically adding, “From Beauty and the Beast.”
 
But in my head I was thinking about the countless numbers of Gold’s Gym employees who have been looking at that picture every time I walked through the doors of that damn gym.  And comparing the picture to me.  And probably thinking, "She must be here for her monthly shower."

Chad said, “You look way better now.”  He was trying hard.  He added, “You look like you’ve gotten in better shape,” although I’m not sure how he could possibly conclude that from looking at the head shot of a street person.

I said, “Would you mind taking a new picture of me?”
 
Chad willingly agreed.  (He most-likely realized that he would not only be doing me a favor, but those who would no longer be exposed to the original.)

My new photo was 10000000% better than the old one. 

Before leaving, I thanked Chad for telling me that I didn’t look like my picture.  

And for giving me a blog topic. 

Then I grabbed my grocery cart..

 and headed back home.

The Photo

I suppose it could be worse.

It could be the National Enquirer, instead of The State Newspaper.  

Damn!   Why do we have to have such an excellent publicity person?

Please don't think I'm being vain. It's a really, really unflattering photo. 

That's what I get for being a good sport. When the director asked me to play the role of the "body" during the publicity photos for A Funny Little Thing Called Love, I willingly agreed.  I mean how could I possibly turn her down? 

Nobody else in the cast has the vast experience I’ve had playing bodies. In fact, I played the dead body TWICE in 9 to 5.  At the risk of appearing arrogant, my character was quite authentic.  I never moved. Even though my nose itched.  

That's the problem here. I look really dead in this picture. And the ironic thing is, I’m not supposed to be dead. Just passed out. 

I’ve taken bad pictures before.  On the scale of horrendous photos, this one falls somewhere between my first grade class picture and my 1992 drivers license. 

I just don’t understand why Glenn picked that photo. There were at least 3 better ones. Like this one:

Glenn is such a perfectionist. He probably didn't pick it because I was looking at the camera.

I suppose that’s why he didn’t pick this one either.

But for crying out loud, this next one was perfect.  My eyes were closed and everything.

OMG!  I think I get it now. I’m not even in that scene. I was just filling in for someone else.  

Glenn must have been worried about me upstaging everyone else with my beauty.  

Damn him.

The Head Shot

I felt like a contortionist in a scene from The Exorcist. The photographer made me turn my body down-stage with my shoulders and head turned up-stage. "Ouch!  This hurts!" I objected.

"Stop whining and tilt your head 37 degrees South East," the Nazi photographer demanded.

I've never been a fan of head shots. I suppose it all stemmed from years and years of horrible class pictures growing up. In 13 years of schooling, I never had a good one.

"Hey carrot top...nice picture," the boys would tease. 

It's even worse when you combine my lack of photgeneity (I made that word up) with my predisposition for passive aggressive bug-eye behavior. You see, when I get frustrated my eyes react.  Big time. 

I can't help it.  

My eyes expand in perfect correlation to my level of frustration.

You should have seen my drivers license photo taken on Good Friday in 1992 when the Milwaukee D.M.V. was closing at noon and the line wrapped around the room 3 times and the one woman unlucky enough to be working that morning kept ignoring me. 

I looked like Marty Feldman by the time she snapped the picture.

But on a positive note, it provided hours of entertainment at family gatherings over the next 4 years. "Hey Lou! Show Uncle Buck your license. I don't think he's seen it"

"Holy crap!" Buck said, in admiration.  "How'd you do that?"

Then there's that photo on my work ID. The security camera woman told me to step up to the line and smile. Click.

"Can I see it?" I asked as she pulled it up on her full screen. I took a look. "Oh, would you mind taking another one?"

Click. I look. "I'm sorry, would you take another one please? I don't like the way my eyes look."

Tsk. Click. I look. "One more?"

"Uh, Lou. This is how you look."

So, considering my lifetime of bad pictures, I shouldn't have been surprised when I opened the email from the photographer containing my head shot.

I screamed.

"I DIDN'T KNOW I HAD WRINKLES ON MY NECK!" Are you stinkin' kidding me?

But guess what! I just had a neck life. And a face tuck. And botox.

It's called Photo Shop. And that Nazi photographer is a stinkin' genius.

I just have one question.

Where was she when I was in 1st grade? 

I so could have used her.