A Bad Photo of Myself

There is nothing that gets me down like a bad photo of myself. Okay, it’s an exaggeration to say this since there are of course other things that are far worse, but I’m trying to underscore a point. When I see a bad picture of myself, it unwittingly opens the flood gates to all the negative feelings I have about my appearance.

I was having a pretty good day before I went to go get my new passport pictures taken. After I saw my new photos, my mood plummeted to the depths of despair. No matter how I felt about what I looked like walking into the store where my photo was taken, I now saw the “real” evidence of how I look: ugly. Not one feature met any of the ideal beauty standards. It was hopeless. Why did I even bother doing my hair, putting on makeup, or dressing nicely? It’s as futile as throwing glitter on poop. It still stinks. (See, I wasn’t kidding about it sending me into despair)!

It’s strange because I do have a number of photos in which I look great. The problem is that I experience these photos the same way a “friend” once did when she saw a great photo of me: She exclaimed, “Oh my God! You look gorgeous! It doesn’t look a thing like you!” Uh, yeah. Thanks for the compliment. But I felt she was telling a truth. I know how to take a good photo: I turn my face three quarters, suck in my cheeks, purse my lips, and “voilá!” a good photo, but it’s not really what I look like.

This could be a very, very long article about how all women are judged by their appearance, how our self-identities are in the hands’ of others’ defining gaze, and how the very thing we are socialized to prize (our youthful, feminine appearance) is a ticking time bomb set to blow up with old age. The intellectualization of the problem doesn’t matter here. What matters is the practical bottom line: here’s something that really unravels me so what am I going to do about it? I hate the power I allow my appearance to have over my happiness.

Here are the things I try that help:

First, I challenge my thoughts the way my best friend would. “OK, it is at least possible that this is just a bad photo of me and that it does NOT reflect what I really look like.”

Of course, I never believe that crap when I’m already feeling down but I suspend my negative attitude enough so that just going through the motions of challenging my negative thoughts has some positive effect despite myself.

What works a bit better is putting things in perspective. I say to myself, “An hour ago you were feeling fine. You looked at a photo and feel terrible. But nothing has actually changed. You’re the same person across all these situations and moods. It’s just a mood. It’ll pass (or come and go).” I also note that “Even IF it were true that you are unattractive, it doesn’t matter to you most of the time anyway. So, why let it matter to you right now?” It’s a tactic kind of like the one my husband uses on me when I’m mad at him: he asks me, “How long will you be mad?” I realize that precisely because it is not a constant state that I CAN ask myself, “how long is this depressive funk going to last?” So, if I’m going to stop being upset eventually anyway, why not sooner rather than later?

Another thing I try is reminding myself about balance and choice. Yes, it is true you are not the most attractive woman on the earth, but neither are you the least attractive. Which side of this are you going to choose to focus on?

I also silently yell at myself, “Stop being so flippin’ narcissistic!” Get over the obsession with your looks and do something productive for others! (This works to make me feel guilty, but the guilt is nonetheless a slight shift away from utter self-pity).

Sometimes I try the standard New Age cliché by asking myself, “What is this trying to teach me?” Whether I’m an awkward looking teen or a midlifer having to face the signs of age, maybe it’s time I learn to accept the inevitable: I cannot rely on my looks to be happy; so, I might as well learn to start dealing better now.

Many times I cope by resolving to try harder. I recommit to better nutrition and more exercise. I start planning all the cosmetic procedures I could endure; I resolve to be one of those women who vow not to age gracefully but fight it tooth and nail every step of the way. I will have cleavage. I will be more feminine. I will be immaculately groomed. . . And then I get tired of all the effort. . . Or the feminist in me gets ticked both with myself and with the cultural ideals of womanhood.

I certainly haven’t solved this little Achilles Heel of mine. Usually time takes care of it. Luckily, I have an attention demanding little child who does not allow me the luxury of bathing in many ruminatory thoughts.

Of course, there is always one sure fire cure to my ugly-mood-blues. They seem somehow to magically evaporate the moment Mr. Man-on-the-Street sends an admiring glance. --- Uh, no! Maybe we’ve got a lot of work to do here!