I love looking at all the beautiful people posed perfectly in all the beautiful places, seemingly having the place to themselves.
With the lighting just right. The outfit spot-on. No bags under the eyes. The perfect Instagrammable image.
And then there’s me. I might be in a beautiful place, but so are the ten or hundred other people vying for that perfect shot. I may be smiling, but my hair may be crazy or the sunlight might be highlighting my crow’s feet. My outfit practical, not perfect.
Not Instagrammable. Actually, I’m not even on Instagram. So big woop.
What I do have are photographic memories of my authentic experiences.
In my imperfect photo, I remember how I felt when it was taken. The warmth of the sunlight on my face as I squinted into the camera. The cool, refreshing raindrops that soaked my hair and clothes. Laughing into the wind as it whipped tangled strands of hair across my face. The excitement I felt when, in my exhausted-and-wearing-glasses-and-no-makeup state, I discovered I had a train car all to myself. The goofy outfit I wore because it was the only combo I had to keep me dry/warm/comfortable in inclement weather.
I’m 56. I have wrinkles and blotches.
But my imperfect photos reflect the me as I am, and my genuine emotions I felt in that moment. This is the “me” you’ll see if our paths cross sometime.
So sometimes I’ll post the crazy photos along with the decent ones. They always make me laugh or roll my eyes, or both! I hope you feel comfortable sharing some of your “real you” photos too. That’s the you I’d love to see.
