Amazing, Just ... Amazing
You're looking good for 71 years of age. Sometimes that's what I tell myself, scrutinizing my image in the mirror. That's when I take a deliberate look, and I happen at that moment to look all right. It's different when I'm caught unawares, happen to glance at a mirror and see a truly familiar/unfamiliar face peering back at me. Right: that's not me, it's my mother. But thanks for that back-handed compliment.
We went along to the Great Canadian Superstore this morning. We left our two little Poodles at home, wailing at being deserted. We weren't gone long, the little idiots, but it was as though we had completely abandoned our little charges. As if. Not surprising, however, given the rarity of the event, since there's nowhere we go that they don't accompany us. Hardly anywhere.
On this occasion we were going to the photographic studio operated inside that huge store. I'd never been in there before, although my husband often drops by to do a little grocery shopping now and again. I shop downscale, at a cut-rate supermarket, where you do your own packing, into large plastic bins, and where comestibles are considerably less pricey.
The young woman operating the studio is bright and cheerful, just the kind of person able to deal naturally with clients, unlike so many who disdain to even notice potential customers lurking in the foreground, hoping to be noticed, and served - if it isn't too much trouble, please.
She invites us, separately, into the small booth, where we're to sit on a stool, and she takes our photographs.
It's quick work, and she is very professional and yet laid back at the same time. Pleasant demeanour, her mother should be proud of her. We've had some stinkers, but she isn't one of them, and I compliment her on her ability to serve customers without a patronizing air. She laughs, and says she knows exactly what I mean, and she thinks it's deplorable how some young people behave. Hmmm.
The photos taken with that digital camera are relayed wirelessly to a nearby printer, and she carefully cuts each to size, stamps the back of one of each set, and places them into the requisite folder to be handed over to the Passport Office. She shows each of us our photograph, for approval, before proceeding with this last step.
Last time we had photographs taken for the purpose of taking out passports was 22 years ago. I still remember how dissatisfied I was with the photograph taken of me at that time. We looked at them recently, his and mine; we hadn't bothered renewing them. Amazing how different you look at 49. My hair was a deep dark brown, my face unlined, eyes bright. That was then. Now, when I look at that photograph, I think: how beautiful I looked.
We look, aghast at the creatures peering back at us. Grey hair, pale faces; shrivelled old geezers. A vapid smile draped across each elderly face. Is this vanity that causes us to disown those images? They're ours, after all. We're not strangers to our 71-year-old appearances, we've taken our share of casual photographs lately.
Any we don't particularly like, we delete. These passport photos are permanent, they will accurately describe our features to officious agents of the state, wherever we travel.
We went along to the Great Canadian Superstore this morning. We left our two little Poodles at home, wailing at being deserted. We weren't gone long, the little idiots, but it was as though we had completely abandoned our little charges. As if. Not surprising, however, given the rarity of the event, since there's nowhere we go that they don't accompany us. Hardly anywhere.
On this occasion we were going to the photographic studio operated inside that huge store. I'd never been in there before, although my husband often drops by to do a little grocery shopping now and again. I shop downscale, at a cut-rate supermarket, where you do your own packing, into large plastic bins, and where comestibles are considerably less pricey.
The young woman operating the studio is bright and cheerful, just the kind of person able to deal naturally with clients, unlike so many who disdain to even notice potential customers lurking in the foreground, hoping to be noticed, and served - if it isn't too much trouble, please.
She invites us, separately, into the small booth, where we're to sit on a stool, and she takes our photographs.
It's quick work, and she is very professional and yet laid back at the same time. Pleasant demeanour, her mother should be proud of her. We've had some stinkers, but she isn't one of them, and I compliment her on her ability to serve customers without a patronizing air. She laughs, and says she knows exactly what I mean, and she thinks it's deplorable how some young people behave. Hmmm.
The photos taken with that digital camera are relayed wirelessly to a nearby printer, and she carefully cuts each to size, stamps the back of one of each set, and places them into the requisite folder to be handed over to the Passport Office. She shows each of us our photograph, for approval, before proceeding with this last step.
Last time we had photographs taken for the purpose of taking out passports was 22 years ago. I still remember how dissatisfied I was with the photograph taken of me at that time. We looked at them recently, his and mine; we hadn't bothered renewing them. Amazing how different you look at 49. My hair was a deep dark brown, my face unlined, eyes bright. That was then. Now, when I look at that photograph, I think: how beautiful I looked.
We look, aghast at the creatures peering back at us. Grey hair, pale faces; shrivelled old geezers. A vapid smile draped across each elderly face. Is this vanity that causes us to disown those images? They're ours, after all. We're not strangers to our 71-year-old appearances, we've taken our share of casual photographs lately.
Any we don't particularly like, we delete. These passport photos are permanent, they will accurately describe our features to officious agents of the state, wherever we travel.
Labels: Particularities, Personally Dedicated
posted by Pieface @ 5:17 PM
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