The saddest thing about this photo is that it’s not the cheesiest picture taken of me today. At 1:30, I had an appointment with Prestige Portraits for Senior pictures. Ho boy.
I’ve been dreading this appointment since I got the call two weeks ago. We all know how professional portraits go. They mess with your hair even though it’s exactly how you want it. They tell you to twist your neck and point your chin in all sorts of alien directions. They make you hold your smile for so long that your mouth starts twitching and you end up looking like a poor Elvis impersonator in the result. My mom hasn’t even considered purchasing my school pictures since I was in the fifth grade, and that was the year I was an awkward tomboy. Poor woman. She’ll be really confused in twenty years when she sees that the last fancy picture of her daughter looks like the picture of an ugly, eleven-year-old boy.
But since this is the last year that I’ll ever be forced through this, I figured I would give it my best effort for the sake of the adults in my family. I’m sure my grandma is sick of looking at that unfortunate fifth grade picture of mine next to my brother’s glorious graduation portrait, and my dad will want a good picture for those corny graduation cards he’ll inevitably be sending out a year from now. Looking peachy wasn’t much of an issue, but I still stressed about it. I’ve gulped down gallons of water and denied countless plates of sweets over the past week to ensure my skin would be as clear as possible. I’ve tried on dozens of outfits, finally settling on the one that I never thought I could pull off because of my short torso. I even straightened my hair, which I haven’t done in months in fear of frying the ends I’m trying so hard to grow past my boobs. In the end, I looked pretty darn good.
Other than the fact that I had to wait forty minutes to be seen by anyone, the experience was tolerable. My photographer was fat and slovenly, but he was able to get a few laughs out of me. Most of the poses were at an acceptable level of cheesiness, too. He did have me stand with my graduation gown “casually open” and pulled to my hip with my hand at one point. Who walks around with their gown unzipped? From what I’ve come to understand, I could wear sweatpants and a tattered t-shirt on my graduation day without anyone noticing because my gown would be closed and covering everything. That’s the way it should be, at least. I’m not sitting through nine hundred kids getting their diplomas in a scratchy dress. No-sir-ee.
Of course, I haven’t seen the pictures, so maybe they’re actually the worse I’ve ever taken. At least one horrifying step to graduation is behind. Now I just have to get through my Senior year of school. Oh joy.
I’ve officially lost the concept of time. I wake up, not knowing what day of the week or date of the month it is. If a television wasn’t running a memorized schedule of programming in the background, I would never know what time it was, either. These days just fly by. Did you know that there is only one week left in June? I didn’t…At least, not until I realized I was sick of looking at the salad picture on my Betty Crocker calendar and needed to know when I could flip the page. SHOW ME THE CAKE, BETS.
I suppose it doesn’t matter much. It’s summer. I have nowhere to go, no one to see. As long as I’m up for dinner, I can run on any schedule I want. No one would care.
Except for me, of course. Like with so many aspects of my life, I’m the only one dissatisfied with myself. As much as I love burning the midnight oil, I hate waking up after 9:30 AM, which is inevitable if I stay up past 12. I don’t know why my body thinks it needs more than nine hours of sleep. It doesn’t. I only clocked in six and a half last night because of How to Read Literature Like a Professor in the evening and mysterious hammering noises in the morning, yet my eyelids feel like they’re stapled to my eyebrows. I’m up. I’m chipper. I’m ready to roll. Why would I need more sleep when the most taxing activity of my typical summer day involves carrying my cereal bowl to my computer?
To solve my problem, I will be setting my alarm for 9:30 AM every night. I’m hoping my fear of my alarm will actually force me up before that time. It may not buzz or beep obnoxiously, but I’m always afraid of hearing a song that will stick itself in my brain for the rest of the day. I have not-so-fond memories of waking up to “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz every other morning last September. I’d change the station from pop if my clock radio picked up more than two stations, and the other station didn’t consist of strictly 80s music. I like to forget that the 80s ever happened.
Up with long days, down with sleep. Let’s do this.
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