Even when I was younger, I hated having my photo taken.  I’m showing my age here, so bear with me–do you remember that episode of Friends where Chandler has a problem smiling for the camera?  Yup, that’s the one.  Funny, right?  Definitely, if you aren’t the one facing the lens.

I am the female version of Chandler.  I think I have the best smile possible and as soon as someone says “Cheese!” it’s over.  My sweet look of serenity has been replaced with the look of a rabid chipmunk on ecstasy, no less.

I have a sister who has perfected the art of looking decades younger as soon as the smartphones come out.  Understand, I’m the person who takes photos of others and then I hide in the back row if I have to be in one.  I’m only 5’3″, so the back row of any group except pre-schoolers means I’m invisible.

“See my shoulder.  That’s me at the Coliseum!”  You get it.

I’m not terrible looking, but my facial muscles haven’t gotten the message yet.  I have a photo or two that I look okay in, but taking selfies to get one decent photo is a  full-time job.  Thank goodness, we have digital now.  Back in the olden days, or should I say my youth, you took a photo or two and after they were developed you picked the least offensive one to use for whatever project needing an image of yourself.

If I take one thousand photos, the odds are, I will get one I won’t find too horrific, and I’ll recognize it immediately and can delete the offending ones forever.  That’s a pro for digital.  The con is everyone and their half-brothers have a camera to take that one photo when you have your mouth stuffed full of pizza or when you are captured in the worst angle possible.  Is that my @** or a Volkswagen?

I hate when people say, “Get my best side.”  For some of us, the best side is back behind the camera.

Today, I had to do a YouTube video.  Not just one snippet of time where I need to contort my features into something pleasing, but minutes of me flipping my hair, rolling my eyes, and showing my old lady face on a medium that can be transmitted around the world.  The incessant babbling of the newly deranged is more coherent than my moments on camera.

Finally, after 45 minutes and about 20 takes, I come up with the least embarrassing video.  I’m sure by the time it’s edited they will remove everything except my rabid chipmunk smile and the two short sentences which will actually make sense.

I wonder if therapy will help?