We live in a self-hating culture. And it’s time to knock it off.
Up until a few months ago, I was one of those people.
You know, the ones who jump out of group photographs right before the flash, stammering, “Oh, no no no, not me!” It’s usually a woman—I almost never hear of men doing this—who thinks she looks so incredibly horrible and grotesque that the CIA will somehow find her picture from your daughter’s bat mitzvah and immediately capture her, classifying her as some kind of strange cryptic worthy of international study. Brain removal may or may not be necessary, but why take the chance?
I wish I could shake each and every one of these women and yell, “You’re beautiful, stupid! Don’t not make memories because of your chin or your love handles!” Of course, I don’t think that would help much—and not just because it would be me calling people stupid. Look, if I want to capture your face forever on my phone, it’s because I happen to like said face; I’m not forwarding it to People of Walmart.
