I won a writing contest last week. It was a 100-word short story for the local paper. The editor, who called to tell me I’d won, interviewed me over the phone, and just as we were finishing, he added, “And we’ll need a picture.”
“Of me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How about someone related to me?”
“Nope.”
“Or a middle-aged actress that resembles me?”
The editor was probably wishing he had selected a sane person.
“Fine,” I said.
There has to be one decent picture of myself.
I began frantically searching through my phone and computer. I emailed my daughter. If there’s a good picture of me, please send!
And she did.
Oh, the horror! Who is this less attractive, older version of myself?
Finally I found a picture that was flattering. It was far away, blurry and the person next to me partially obstructed my face.
Jackpot!
The editor was less impressed. “We need a clear, solo, unfiltered photo.”
A clear picture? Since when is clear better? For a glass of water, perhaps. But for pictures, let’s not discount hazy. Sometimes I see a picture of myself without my glasses and I think, “Hey, I look good.” Then I put my glasses on and I cry a little inside.
A solo picture? Who has a solo picture of themselves, besides convicts and realtors?
An unfiltered picture of myself? Filters were invented for a reason.
After not finding a single, clear, solo, unfiltered picture of myself, I realized I would have to take a selfie. I examined my middle-aged face. Not bad. But really my face wasn’t the problem.
It was my neck.
I didn’t even know necks could be a problem until one of my friends (who will remain nameless, but we’ll call her Carrie) recently told me about her neck woes. “I hate my neck,” she said. “It’s gotten so saggy, like a turkey.” Well, that doesn’t sound fun, I thought, glancing in the mirror at my own neck. Oh, my God! When did this happen? The lines, the wrinkles, the loose skin. Maybe it wasn’t full-blown turkey, but it was turkey-esque.
I checked my watch. Did I have time for some light surgery?
Probably not.
But I did have tape.
My friend once told me how she used tape to lift her eyebrows and soften the lines in between. That Carrie sure is resourceful.
But tape on a neck? Wasn’t this going too far?
I found duct tape in the laundry room.
We were out of clear tape, so I used red. I cut a piece, and while holding the tape in one hand, I pushed the left side of my neck back with the other hand. Carefully, I tucked the loose skin under the tape on the back of my neck. This stuff is amazing, I thought as I secured the rest of my turkey neck into place. The skin was firm, taught, years younger. Perfect.
Uh, oh.
I could see red on one side. Not a lot, but enough that might make one ponder the question, “Is this a vampire story?”
The second time, I cut a small piece of tape and neatly pulled the left side of my neck into place. Looking good, left side. But as I attempted to attach the right side, I ran out of tape. One side was smooth. The other, saggy. I was a before and after advertisement for turkey neck.
I found more tape and on my third attempt, I finally got it. The skin was pulled back evenly on both sides without a hint of vampire or sag.
Just right.
I felt like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks were a deranged writer, with neck issues. Maybe she was. We know so little about her.
After make-up and hair, I went in search of the best possible lighting in the house. It required me to spin around in several rooms, until I found optimum lighting. Slightly dizzy, but satisfied that I had done all I could, I snapped six selfies. Within minutes, I had made my selection, and one picture of a middle-aged neurotic writer, with a good neck, was en route to the editor.
His response was, “Thanks.”
Thanks?
How about,
You’re so brave …
I know these last 24 hours have been trying …
We were wrong to make you go through this…
The following week, my story, a short article on me, and the picture came out. My family, friends and colleagues had many kind words.
“What a great story.”
“I love the ending.”
“The imagery was powerful.”
I thanked them politely, feeling a sense of pride. Still, it would have been nice if just one person had commented, “You know what was even smoother than your transitions, your neck.”