The other day, an old friend texted a picture of the two of us and wrote, “you used to be hefty.” I sent back a photo of Wilford Brimley and said now I’m old and hefty. Fun fact: though he looked much older, Brimley was not quite 51 years old when Cocoon was released (I’m approaching 50). My friend wasn’t lying. I used to be a lot heavier and I didn’t wear my weight well (it was all in my gut, neck, and face). I still don’t wear my weight well, but I’ve tried to do a better job of not wearing it at all by not getting hefty.
That battle against heftiness has been harder these past few years. I have a lot of excuses, some of them legitimate, for not being in as good as shape as I was just two or three years ago. The semi-legitimate excuses are time and temperature. It’s colder here for longer periods of time than any of the other places I’ve lived. On average, State College is 5 – 10 degrees colder than the Philadelphia region and 10 – 15 degrees colder than Memphis. I don’t like exercising in the cold. It’s also grayer here, and while grayness doesn’t have a direct impact on exercise, it makes me less willing to go outside. As for time, I have a dog, a more involved job, a longer commute, and I try to dedicate more time to writing – it’s probably a good thing I’m not in a relationship. Exercise, which for a few years was a pretty important part of my routine, has taken a backseat here in State College….
But this isn’t about exercise or being hefty. I’ve been thinking about profile pictures (professional, dating, social media), our public facing selves, and digital legacies. The pictures and posts we share are, to a significant degree, the image of the self with which we are most comfortable. They represent the self we would like the world to see. I will not be using my hefty picture on any of my profiles – it’s not the best version of myself. But what is?
Prior to 2016 (when I first became single), I had almost no selfies. Any pictures I had of myself were taken by my wife or a friend or at an event. For the longest time, my primary profile picture on social media was of me in a three-wolf-moon t-shirt. I’m smiling in the picture and I’m not quite hefty (but on my way). Then for a while, my profile picture was either of me at Central Park in NYC or me at my daughter’s college graduation. Again smiling, and in better shape. For the past two years, my main profile picture has been one of me standing outside the Robert Clay shack at the Shack Up Inn in Clarksdale, MS. Again, smiling and in reasonably good shape, and a little tan.
I don’t consider myself to be a very photogenic person – or at least not any more or less so than the average person. Like hating the sound of my own voice on a recording, I’m not crazy about most of my pictures. Catch me enjoying myself, the pics are fine, maybe even good. Let me know that you’re taking a photo, and suddenly I look constipated or like I might be trying to ignore the shooting pain from the tack I’ve stepped on. As a result, it takes quite a few photos for me to settle on one that I like and feels natural… one that I feel represents the best of who I am.
Yet…. even those photos are misleading. The one at the Robert Clay shack – you can’t see my girlfriend in the picture or (depending on where the crop is) the beer in my hand, or know that good blues music was about to start. The one at Central Park – you wouldn’t know that I spent the entire day meandering around New York with a different girlfriend or that in a month we would be heading to San Diego where we would get engaged. You can guess the reason for the smile in the graduation picture (proud papa), but in most of my pictures, what’s cropped out are the people and circumstances that helped make for a good picture. It seems like if you give me a little sunshine, some alcohol, good music, and good company, I’m a pretty happy camper (and take better photos).
There aren’t many photos of myself that I like, but I do like the ones I’ve chosen as representative of who I am. Unfortunately, there aren’t very many recent ones… and the thing that makes me wistful or bittersweet about these photos is that most of the people who were responsible for the smiles (except my daughter) are no longer in my life. And it’s not really the fact that they’re no longer in my life that makes me sad, but that there’s this almost unwritten rule that they have to be cropped from the frame as if context doesn’t matter. For me, only sharing part of the story often feels misleading. Thankfully, I have a few friends who will always remind me of my uncropped and hefty self.