Or at least mine would.
Seriously? You take
pictures of yourself and post then on the Internet? Why the hell would you do
that? And what do you mean everyone’s doing it? Don’t f*^k with me. What has
gotten into you?
‘90s me is rightly shocked and horrified. I used to be so
skilled at ducking out whenever anyone someone started to fiddle with a
telephoto lens attachment or set up the tripod. (Back then, there was
sufficient warning to make my getaway.) I’d lock myself in the bathroom and say
something about an eggplant allergy to the person banging on the door. Yep,
that kept them at bay. Click away! By the time I re-emerged, they’d have used
up their roll of film and we could go back to casually debating whether Madonna
was becoming irrelevant—Who invited the straight guy?—or discussing which “Friends”
character was the funniest. (Please. It was always Phoebe.)
Never wanted any photographic evidence of my physical
existence. Big nose. Hair always overdue for a cut. Bulging eyes. Stick figure
arms. A gut that screamed for a massive diet to lose ten pounds. (It was always
ten pounds and it was always an extreme diet.) Excessively wrinkly elbows that
should always be concealed by long sleeves. Retro WHAM! t-shirt…What was I
thinking?!
‘90s me would never have imagined that I’d post goofy
selfies on Facebook. People “Like” this
sort of thing? Mercy likings, no doubt. Surely they were forced to dim their
screens. There’s no way those elbows improved.
And ‘90s me would have me committed—okay, re-committed—for
having the gall to post a shirtless selfie. Not just once. What are you trying to do? Incite politicians to make selfies illegal?
When did you become an activist about world issues? Shirtless?! An extreme
activist. It’s mind boggling.
Truth is, I’m not so far evolved from ‘90s me. I can still
pick apart my physical state. And yet, the selfies are not so horrid. My body
seems to have finally bulked up a tad. The gut doesn’t look as large. (I’ve
downsized to the eternal quest to lose five pounds. Dieting is a way of being.)
Still, that dang phone camera is never far away. Every time I’m in a hotel
room, I snap a shirtless selfie.
Why? It’s hard to chalk it up to vanity when I am only
mildly less repulsed by my looks. It’s part of an evidentiary expedition.
Frankly, I don’t believe all the other shirtless selfies. They don’t look half
bad. Everyone can get one good photo, maybe two. Trick mirrors, no doubt. I
have to keep testing things. I need to return to sanity and that solid sense of
unworthiness. I snap. I’m not appalled. Sometimes I’m almost satisfied…but for
the five pounds and those freaky elbows.
Posting shirtless
selfies?! Not as an activist statement? Not as an act of terrorism? (Okay,
to be accurate, ‘90s me wouldn’t have mentioned terrorism. It wasn’t such a
buzzword then. We were too concerned about the fact that Backstreet Boys may
have actually nailed a couple good tunes. Boy band credibility threatened to
upset the entire social order.)
Sorry, ‘90s me, I can’t really explain it. At least, not in
a satisfying way. I post selfies. And, yes, even, shirtless selfies. Surely,
there are selfie self-help groups, but I live in too remote an area. (Yeah,
‘90s me would shake his head at that, too. You
moved where?!)
I’m selfie-aware enough to sense that I am seeking
superficial validation. I’m stuck there. Not because I want to dwell on that.
Believe me, I’d love to get past obsessing over physical imperfections. (At 50,
I know they are cropping up with greater speed! At my most recent appointment
with my skin cancer doctor, I kept pointing out questionable blemishes. “Age
spots” was her declaration for each and every one. I should be glad be glad she
didn’t say “melanoma” and I was, albeit taken aback nonetheless. Age spots are
the new acne.) Like everyone else, I post selfies to fictionalize my life. Look
at all the fun I’m having. Look at how great I look. (Never mind that I had to
delete another ninety-nine less appealing, more true-to-life shots.) I need
people to throw some “Likes” and some “Favorites” my way. Self-esteem has
evolved to selfie-steem.
I’d love someone to know me more intimately, to see the
humor, the kindness and perhaps the intelligence…when it comes to subjects
other than posting selfies. Still, for now, surface “Likes” are all I can garner.
This is chronic adolescence. Low-level validation means far
more than it should. But that’s the window. That’s the first impression.
Disappointment in that domain means there is no second look.
Note to selfie: I’ll be glad when you’re gone. And as for
you, ‘90s me, I’d love for you to stay in the archives as well. (Can’t believe
you put a Backstreet Boys earworm in my head.)
Maybe the next time I book on hotels.com, I’ll request a
room with no mirrors. That will be the new trend. It’s only a matter of months
before more of us enter selfie-recovery.
