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.
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