Good luck, because I haven’t prepared. There’s no last will and testament, no burial instructions, no poignant, heart-rending farewell, no nothing. It’s all loose ends and unfinished business. Someone’s gonna have to wing it.
Wait, that’s wrong, I made one final provision: I selected an obituary photo. I’ll entrust that little detail to nobody since it represents me for all eternity.
Do you know how many dopey snapshots there are of me floating around unattended? Too many. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of full color images exist with me smiling in horrifying getups. Stuff like bell bottoms, evening gowns, mini skirts, eyeglasses the size of windshields, bathing suits, poofy hairdos, aaargh. My last good picture, if memory serves, was in second grade and even that one featured a prominent cowlick born from an unfortunate haircut.
Given my druthers, I’d sooner have a gun pointed at me than a camera. I’m really not an eyesore, just awkward and painfully, horribly self-conscious. A combination that often looks like nausea. Or fear. Or wooziness. Or irrational annoyance.
So what type of photograph did I decide on? A professional portrait? A glamour shot? An artsy rendering? Nope, nope, and nope. It’s not a picture of me at all, it’s a picture of my tennis shoes. They’re goofy and inoffensive and unbefitting the occasion, which describes me to a tee. Plus they’re stuffed with socks, to give them a little extra pizzazz. Shoes are a pretty clever stand-in, don’t you think?
And mine take a darn good picture; I don’t. I’m too twitchy. I could fill entire albums with pictures where my eyes are closed, or I’m sneezing, or moving, or yawning, or scowling, something dorky, anyway. There’s a staff photo I’m in with my co-workers — bright, capable people, all. I’m the one scratching my head with one eye closed. It’s no wonder I break into a sweat when I see a camera. Still, damp is more photogenic than itchy, in my opinion.
My tennis shoes, though, are the most photogenic of all. They’re practically to die for.
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