The Only Good Picture Taken in Rio
I took a lot of bad pictures that week. But one was good.
I never liked taking pictures.
At least pictures with me included.
Sure, I’d scooch into the side for family portraits or inch closer to grandma because, as someone would unnecessarily point out, “You never know what might happen.”
I’d roll my eyes, but turn toward the camera and smile. I’d never see those pictures. Neither would anyone else.
It was the images people would see I shied away from. The social posts. The Facebook updates and Instagram Stories. I’d back out of frame, duck out of view, go play with the host’s dog in the corner.
Occasionally someone would comment, “Why aren’t you ever in the pictures?”
I’d shrug out an excuse. Bad timing. I’d rather take the pictures than be in them. I’m a man of mystery.
All lies.
It all stemmed from hating to look at myself in the mirror. Back in those formative teenage years, I’d see nothing but imperfections, and I’d blame those imperfections for everything I could. The girl in class didn’t like me? Blame it on a mole. Lack of confidence? The fault of pesky blackheads. Failed German test? I’m sure my hairline had something to do with it.
