%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT May 11th Look at a picture from your younger years. You don’t have to share the photo with us, but try to describe it in as much detail as possible. What led up to the photo being taken and what happened after? First, I must set the tone, the mood, the background of photos from my youth. Digital pics were a concept of the future. I grew up posing in front of a camera loaded with film. Sometimes, a flash would be used and most of the time not used. Some flashes were cubes slotted into the top of a handheld camera and they were good for only four shots. No one could know the quality of those pics until they returned from a developer's printed on paper. There were no re-takes, or deletions. If your head had been chopped off, or the photographer's hand shook, or you looked away for a brief moment, or you sneezed, or anything that could happen did happen, that photo would be revealed later. So, basically the quality could not be guaranteed. Moments were lost never to be recaptured. The cameras I recall were inexpensive. Snap and shoot, and hope for the best. I've always disliked posing for photos. The fussing and arranging annoy me. Hissed admonitions from my childhood to stand still, don't you dare move, stop fidgeting, smile, would it kill you, and for god's sake do not blink still haunt me. In my head, I'd be screaming, "Take the damn shot already!" I see the results;me pouting, me with my eyes clenched tight, me squinting, or my favourite recourse, me 'making a face.' I figured if I was going to ruin a picture I might as well make it funny. The absolute worse environment for me is an outdoors' shot. Bright sunlight almost blinds me. My eyes are sensitive to light and my sunglasses are always perched on my nose. Everyone warns me not to blink, but an assault from a flash triggers my squint reflex. Apparently, photos should be undertaken sans protective eye wear. It is agony to pose and try to repress a blink, or a squint. Despite my best efforts and my outright sabotage, my brother-in-law scoffs that I 'can take a good picture.' In his estimation 'yous Brownlees'look terrible in photos. He lumps my youngest sister in with me. We laugh it off. He attempts to rile us with claims that he's the beauty in family portraits and she obviously married him for his good looks 'cause she can't help but appear better standing next to him. He also laments that there will never be a great pic of us. I just tell him good luck finding photos of me to create a slide show for my funeral. My youngest plans to marry in August and she began warning me months ago about the photos. "You will smile won't you Mom? Can you practise before the wedding?" In my possession is a shot of me after my mother insisted on torturing me with a home perm. I do not recall all the details of that harrowing experience and I suspect the memory block shields me from knowledge of being bound. I was five years old, but I cannot fathom I willingly sat still while this hair assault occurred. I have never tolerated anyone touching, or playing with my hair. It is long, thick and straight. I've seen my newborn pics and I seem to be encased in a wig, that's how much hair I've always had. My hair does not curl, nor has it ever voluntarily supported a curl, not even a wave. Curling irons, rollers, whatever, they cannot force my hair into a curl. My mother though decided her eldest child, about to begin kindergarten, needed a makeover. So, in this photo my considerable hair is piled atop my head and I seem to be sprouting a rather large Brillo pad. I suspect I had the world's first Afro, the very first sandy blonde Afro. My five-year old frame is dwarfed by all that hair spread out in a powder puff formation. I am not smiling, nor am I frowning. I think I appear dazed. A scowl seems to be forming and I am not staring directly at the photographer. I'm wearing a turquoise blue floral jacket over a white shirt and a wee white mini skirt. Blindingly white socks are pulled up to my knobby knees. My legs are little, thin sticks. I believe I'd been cajoled into trying on a new school outfit. To say I don't look impressed would be accurate. Mom admitted that perm lasted maybe a week. My true hair pushed out the chemically-induced curls to swing in its preferred long, straight length. What had she been thinking? What's so great about curly hair? Mom never messed with my mane again. It was mine to brush and wear long and free. Occasionally, one parent would wrestle with it to form pony tails, but I didn't like the fuss. I liked to run with my hair streaming behind me. In some pics, my twin pony tails are not aligned and I believe those are the days my father fussed with my hair. One tail is perched high on my head and the other begins in the vicinity of an ear. The main thing, or is that 'mane' thing, is that I survived my childhood relatively unscathed. I will now admit that no, it did not kill me to smile for photos. |
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