Ugly Photo
Snapshot of a modern day humbling (with audio).
Essay originally posted April, 2025. Re-released with audio.
We’ve all had a drive-by mirror moment that makes us gasp in horror.
A napkin dispenser tooth check that forces us to toss our lipstick.
An oily puddle that shortens, widens, and humbles.
But nothing compares to a merciless photo.
A bad photo is zoomable, hard evidence that we are not as imagined. Of course, there are one-offs, where angles and lighting collide in a tornado of unflattery. But how can we explain away an entire series of unfortunate events?
We’re talking pictures so dreadful that we’re receiving apology texts.
Photos so horrible that gay men are asserting, “They did you dirty, sis”.
Still frames that make you feel out of body, where the only plausible explanation is that you’ve suffered a terrible accident.
That somehow, you were comatose for three decades.
For years, while your family and friends were living their lives, you lay limp in a hospital bed. You were read bedtime stories by volunteer “book buddies” with checkered pasts. You were hooked up to beeping machines and bathed with a semi-dry loofah.
While determination and technology kept you alive, time marched on.
Then miraculously, after seven presidencies, your soft body awakened. You began to regain dexterity, cognitive function, and a desire for sauvignon blanc.
By the grace of god and with the help of a close-talking, frizzy-haired rehab lady, you were walking again. Hell, you were talking again!
It was almost like this tragic accident never happened. Almost. Almost—except for one thing: while you lay locked to your hospital bed, your Scottish skin did you no favours. Over the years, you continued to age…rapidly.
One would’ve thought that zero sunlight, no mortgage stress, and skipping the 87th season of Love is Blind would’ve preserved your face. But it didn’t.
Apparently, there was no BOTOX® or La Mer in the “trip and fall” unit.
Unbeknownst to you, you became senior overnight. Aging is the receipt of life’s cruelty.
Once you’re released from hospital, a dear friend invites you to their anniversary party. You're chuffed. It’s an opportunity to plug back into the life you remember.
Plus, you can show off your working legs to friends who moved to Kitchener-Waterloo.
Your hospital room was in downtown Toronto. So, technically, you never left the city. You weren’t part of the suburban exodus that went searching for lawns and full-height basements.
You remained a downtown girlie.
At the party, you’re in your element.
You’re greeted by familiar faces you once shared red solo cups with. You see some of the children-turned-young-adults you’d nearly forgotten about (oopsie!).
Most importantly, you’re reunited with your closest gals.
Your friends look beautiful. They’re exactly as remembered.
Wrongfully, you assume the same for yourself.
From the far corner, someone calls out for a group photo. You gather around and squeeze in tightly. The camera snaps and snaps again. You smile, happy to preserve this moment exactly as it is.
Once you’re back home, your phone pings. You see a photo album has been shared in the State Street Galz group chat.
When you open the first photo, you’re in disbelief.
You click the next picture. Then, the next.
Bravely, you zoom in on your hands.
All of a sudden, you feel faint. Your knees buckle. Your phone slips through loose fingers as you fall to the floor.
You’ve become your own Great Aunt.
As every photo indicates, you’ve secured Rexall’s 55+ senior discount. You’ve been carrying Werther’s in your purse. You’ve penned dozens of open letters to Mark Zuckerberg to keep your Facebook posts private!
The whole 30-year coma thing? It probably never happened.
You invented the story as a defence mechanism—a way to explain how baby blue pleated plants and a graphic blouse could go so horribly wrong.
How your age-appropriate face could contort into something so elderly.
How your hands could reveal so many veins that your nurse-sister called them “medically enviable”.
While years may not have been stolen from you, you’ve been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Without the help of a gimmicky aging app, you have a window into how you’ll look at your daughter’s retirement party.
In some ways, the photos are a second lease on life.
While they’re a blaring reminder that time marches on, with a healthy skin routine and alkaline water, it may be possible to squeeze in a few more years of tangential youth.
There is still time before there’s no more time.
And so, you tuck your phone away.
Respectfully, I object to photographs as evidence.
A mirror is bad enough, but at least it has the decency to happen once and then vanish unless you keep standing there making poor decisions. I once saw a candid photo of myself at a barbecue and briefly believed I had been replaced by a substitute gym teacher who had just lost custody based on a I'm With Stoopid t-shirt he wore the hearing.
I hope this helps, although I understand it does not help at all.
--Darren D. Darren
This cracked me up cuz my 4 year-old regularly takes 50+ photos of me from the worst angles, I mean, he's only 3.5 feel tall :-).