No. There are no pictures of me on this blog.  I will post pictures of my wonderful child, the amazing Harrypotamus (much, I am sure, to his eternal embarrassment later in life), my hunk of a husband, and possibly my completely insane (verifiably because they actually like me) friends. I’m not saying I might not slip up in the future, but don’t hold your breath in wait unless you are a professional pearl-diver or something.  The one thing that I am absolutely insecure about, to the point of psychosis, is the way I look.

There.  I said it.  If you want to take aim to hit me in a sore spot, there it is.  I mean, I am not epically ugly or anything.  I don’t have horrible pitted acne scars or elephant man disease.  I am not morbidly obese.  But I don’t own a full-length mirror, and I don’t like having my picture taken thank-you-very-much.  I just have never particularly felt that my looks were the feature I was going to bank my future on.

It’s my psychosis, and I am comfortable with it.  There is no need for anyone to say anything to make me feel any better about it.  My psychosis and I have come to a living arrangement over the forty-some-odd years of my life, and as uneasy as the arrangement is, it works for us.  We have had to make some accommodations to the fact that Harry might sometimes like to have a picture of two to remember his old Mom, and my psychosis and I have worked that into the contract.

Life is full of little compromises.