I hate having my picture taken…hate hate HATE it!!! I am always behind the camera, snapping away at everyone I know. But, here I am looking at all these pictures; some in boxes, some in computer files, some in albums and some on Facebook.
Where the Hell are my family portraits? Where are the goofy pictures of me and my siblings as adults? Why do I not have one single picture of my grandmother and me? In fact where is the mother/daughter pictures of my mom and me or my daughter and me? Where is the picture of me standing on a chair so my son and I can be the same height? Where are the happy couple pictures of my husband and I???
I’m scared to be photographed! I’m Native American Indian…pictures will steal my soul, I will never be able to reincarnate, the light bulb demon that lives in the flash will break free and take over the planet… I cannot be responsible for that.
Ok, that’s not the real reason but, it might as well be because my reasoning is as silly as that is. My ridiculous ass never thought to take pictures of my sister when I was in Vegas in 2007 and now all I have of her is childhood photos, her second wedding pictures that she gave me years ago and pictures of her with other people who are not me!! *Sigh*
Every time I see a camera, I scream like I’m 2 and hide…When the Hell did I start doing that? I was never frightened to put on a stupid face and be right smack dab in the middle of the picture. I was always doing something retarded looking with a huge smile on my face. When did I become the scary old hunchbacked recluse in the haunted house on the corner???
Oh, yes I remember… I got married, got fat and lost my smile. Yep, all excellent reasons to stay far away from a camera that will only amplify the horror of not being a happy person. It takes me 20 pictures before I find one that is worthy of Facebook let alone to be cherished forever by my family.
My husband has always been a busy man, so he is in very few pictures; yet he always has a huge smile and goofy face when there is a camera thrust upon him. Which just confirms that men are big kids and don’t stress half as much as we women do. But, I digress because this isn’t a slam men post it’s a Jenni, you dumbass post!!! *Facepalm*
The last family picture we had taken was when our daughter was born, she’s 15 now. My son and daughter have a picture together he was sleeping; a few years ago I took them to a place and got a free picture of the two of them. A few years ago, HA more like over 5 years ago. When they were in public school I always paid for picture packages. I take loads of pictures of my kids, those memories are priceless.
But, what if I died… what if I was in a coma… what if… My kids won’t have photos of their mom; just because I was too terrified to have any permanent reminder that showed my internal sadness or anger. There are no goofy smiles or a sparkle in my eye pictures for my kids to cherish.
Just like I have no pictures of my sister and me since we were teens in High School. How depressing is that?
I don’t even own a camera; with cellphones coming equipped with them, I figured why spend money on something I don’t need… just shoot me now!!!
I am going to buy my first digital camera in the next week or two and I will give it to my daughter. She wants to try photography anyway. Looks like I am going to have to suffer and just let unflattering pictures of me be flaunted. I am already shaking at the thought but, I can’t allow my family to feel the guilt I do, when an unexpected death happens and you look at photo albums then realize all the memories in your aging brain never got saved.
I am the oldest girl in my family; my father had three daughters and always yearned for a son.
Naturally, it became my job to carry out his fantasy. Believe me when I say, I would have much rather been taught how to be a girl but, it just wasn’t in the cards for me.
From the time I could walk I had a baseball in my hand, pretty strange for a little girl but, dad for some twisted reason needed me to play the son role.
My sister who was two years younger than me, got to play girl, in some ways I envy that but, in other ways I don’t. Since I was daddy’s little boy, I learned how to play sports like a boy.
There was no girl who played baseball like I played baseball. I could throw hard and far, I could hit any kind of pitch thrown at me and I could switch hit. Those of you who know nothing about baseball; switch hitting is when you hit right-handed then switch to hitting left-handed or vice versa. Being, ambidextrous, I have always excelled with either hand.
As I got older I started playing softball because that was what “girls” played and even though I was good at it, it was not baseball. I spent my days practicing; throwing, catching and batting. Dad had a wooden bat I practiced with; it was heavy but, if I could swing that and hit the ball, just imagine what I would do with a light-weight aluminum bat.
Every weekend during the summer when dad would come home from work, we would go up to the park for baseball practice. Dad would pitch and I would hit and then we would switch. I could strike dad out several times while playing; my sports abilities were the only thing I received praise for.
The thing I can say about dad teaching me to play baseball is I played like a man; both dad and I could hit damn near any kind of pitch, including ones you would never swing at if you were playing in the Major League. If the ball was within arm reach we would swing at it. It was all in fun and kept our talent at maximum peak.
One day the family went up to the park and played our usual game of baseball. I was pitching, my step-mom was catching, my sisters were in the outfield and dad was batting. He managed to hit a few of my pitches then all of a sudden, I throw this one pitch that maybe dad shouldn’t have swung at. In fact, I know he should NEVER have swung at that. Dad managed to tip the ball with the bat and we all stood shocked as the ball circled high in the sky and CRASHED right into the windshield of his car that was parked on the other side of the fence. It took a few moments and finally dad laughed; “Look what you did.” he told me. “What?! I didn’t hit it.” I replied. Dad never parked that close to the fence ever again.
I can honestly say this is a happy memory from my childhood and I am ok with being treated like a boy so I could have the excellent baseball playing skills I posess. There are many things I might change from back then if I could but, this gift I wouldn’t change for anything.