I Am Not My Job


Or the absolutely horribly unflattering pictures of me that have been taken over the last few days.  Trust me, they are bad.

Really?  You’re going to put this on Facebook?



It apparently does not matter that I lost over a 105 lbs, you still managed to get a double chin in almost every shot you took, what the flying hell?  Seriously?  Head of marketing my ass.

Oh, I know, I’m being overly critical, but it’s my photo people, me, a representation of me on an internet page that has 20,000 friends.

I wanted to run screaming into the bike lane and get run over by the commuter cyclists heading home before the monsoon hit. I don’t work there. I don’t work for you, I don’t want to work for you, yuck. Stop following me around and taking pictures of my double chin.  I thought I had lost that.  Apparently not.

Good lord.

And might I mention, just a thought, I know I hate my profile, but could you perhaps not shoot the camera underneath me?  I think, maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s because the woman taking my pictures is all of a negative 1 in the clothes section.  I am not kidding, my fore arm is bigger than her waist.

But I think, that the most flattering angle is usually shot from above?  Not below the person.

Christ on a stick.  I hate these pictures, they make me want to cry.  I know I am also hormonal or some such heap of chemical baloney.  Or maybe fed up with working in hipster central where everyone is tiny and I picked out the wrong helmet, I like the Nutcase, I’m not cool enough to wear a Bern.


Fact is.  No picture is good enough.

OH, now I really lie.  I actually have had some awesome photos taken of me, John Curley, Arin Fishkin, Keith Carlson, have taken some amazing photos of me.  But the ones I had taken today and Wednesday were not flattering.

And I know I don’t look like those awful things, but man it put a poor taste in my mouth.  I suppose it’s just more humility.  But I left work so upset and so annoyed.  I just wanted to spit.  I did not know how to tell my co-worker to not post them up and please, further, do not write about me, I don’t want to read it.  I don’t want to see it.  I just want to pretend this whole week in pictures did not happen.

Yuck and double yuck and oh wait, there’s more?  I get to take a “year book” photo on Tuesday for the website.


If you cannot hear the acrid irony dripping from my voice, be sure, it is there.


At least with Face Book the damn post will be up and gone and done and over.  With the website that picture will be up as long as I work there.  I am tempted to pull a prima donna act and just let them take a photo of my glasses and my mug of tea.

There–that’s me, nothing else.  No pictures of me with my too big cheap hoop earrings or my tattoos or my used jean jacket.  Nada.  I don’t work there.  Nope you did not see me at this shop, I work at another down the street.

Big deep breath.

None of this is real.

I am not a photo.  I am not a series of poorly taken photos either.  I am just me.  And I don’t always look pretty and I don’t always look how I want to look and I certainly do not photograph how I want either.

If I got what I wanted, the world would be a troubled place.  Fact is I don’t know what’s best for me.  I just know what I think is best for me.  I am not my image.  Looks fade, beauty changes, bodies change.  Time marches on and I can choose to let myself be upset about of all things a Facebook post, or I can get my gratitude on for what I do have.

A job that I actually am starting to do really well at.

A bicycle frame freshly painted from West Coast Powder Coating.  A new messenger bag, which matches my new bike frame, from Rickshaw Bag Works–a gift–from the company from one of the reps.  And a really nice gift at that, I even got to pick out my colors, it was not just serendipitous that my bag matches my bike, it was planned out.

I am not my job.  I am just a worker amongst workers.  And I know that I am far from alone in having had bad pictures taken.  I have had bad pictures taken before and they did not kill me.

They did not.

Neither will these.

And odds are the post may not even be run.  The GM could tell I was a little put off by the photos. I did not have the temperament to discuss it rationally with him.  I was a little over the whole thing by the time I was leaving and a bit curt about the experience.  I restrained what I wanted to say and I left it to the marketing team to decide what photo they wanted to use.

Hopefully they will not use the one that Carlos said I looked like Frankenstein in.  Jesus, Carlos.  It was a bad picture, but was that really necessary to say?

I just shrugged and walked out the design studio and go my bag and my bike and went off to ride in the rain to my next destination.

Holy crap.

I am sensitive.  I was angrier than I realized.  I vented on poor Bethie and on Joan and they were both sweet as pie.  And Carolyn.  Who told me, Face Book is not real.

Oh yeah.

And all the ladies commiserated with me.  I don’t know a single female over the age of twelve that is not sensitive to a poorly taken photo.  It really did remind me of bad school photos.

The nice thing is, in the end, it’s just like a co-worker told me a few weeks ago–“when I get upset about things at work, I remind myself, ‘hey it’s just a bike shop‘ and then I don’t feel so bad”.


It’s just a bike shop and I am so much more than just a shop girl or a bad photo.

Thank God.

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