Okay, let’s get real. Selfies? For years, the idea made me cringe. Not the casual, “Hey, I’m at a cool place” selfie, but the posed, “Look at me, aren’t I fabulous?” kind. My aversion stems from a deep-seated, hilariously unphotogenic nature. Seriously, it’s a gift – the gift of consistently terrible photos. Even as a kid, when cuteness was practically mandatory, photos of me were…questionable. Occasionally, a decent picture would surface, briefly grace the fridge, only to be swiftly exiled to a box, deemed a threat to my Midwestern-bred humility. Visiting homes plastered with framed self-portraits always felt a bit…much. But here we are in 2024, deep in the selfie era, and perhaps that judgment says more about my own photo-phobia than anything else.
So, in the spirit of Throwback Thursday, and to confront my photographic demons, let’s delve into the archives of awkwardness. Prepare yourselves for a glimpse into peak unphotogenic Peaches. (Yes, third person again. It’s a coping mechanism.)
[
Peaches-creepy-dance-costume-6822](Peaches in a spectacularly questionable dance costume)
Behold! The epitome of 1989 pre-teen dance fashion. Hot, right? The dance itself was set to the iconic Midnight Star’s “No Parking on the Dance Floor”. The vision? Some kind of traffic cop meets cocktail waitress, all with a dash of 80s sparkle.
Now, being a “robust” child (read: larger than average), the costume designers clearly hadn’t anticipated my level of “health.” The largest size arrived, shall we say, snug. My dance instructor, bless her heart, resorted to manicure scissors, creating strategic darts in the back of that hot pink, sequined spandex sausage casing. My classmates watched, a mixture of pity and horror in their eyes. Ah, memories.
But wait, the cringe-factor is just warming up…
[
Dance-No-Parking-682](Peaches’ awkward dance photo with questionable makeup and costume)
Picture this: makeup-free me, suddenly thrust into the world of Mary Kay, courtesy of a well-meaning mom. The result? Frosted purple eyeshadow, generously applied. Let me tell you, nothing accentuates a mild case of pre-teen lazy eye quite like wild orchid. And the smile? A gap-toothed grin, showcasing my two oversized front teeth amidst a landscape of missing and half-grown chompers. Think snaggletooth chic. I attempted a closed-mouth smile, but the photographer, in his infinite wisdom, demanded “pearly whites.” Show them off, he insisted. And show them off I did.
The photo evidence, as you can imagine, was…traumatic. So embarrassing, in fact, that those dance recital photos were promptly buried. Hidden away for two decades, until one day, I unearthed this photographic time capsule. Looking at it again, the too-tight costume, the ridiculously catchy “No Parking On The Dance Floor” track, the Soul Train-esque choreography – it all came flooding back. But what I hadn’t remembered were the words emblazoned on the costume itself. Supposedly traffic sign-inspired, the repeating pattern of suggestive phrases is…unmissable:
SOFT SHOULDERS BUMPS AHEAD SLIPPERY WHEN WET ENTER WITH CAUTION …you get the, ahem, picture.
[
dance-costume-close-up](Close-up of the suggestive text on the “No Parking on the Dance Floor” dance costume)
So, yeah. Fun times. Also, deeply unsettling in retrospect. But here’s the kicker: all those years of cringing at my appearance in these photos? Completely overshadowed by the sheer horror of realizing some adult, somewhere, ordered a child’s dance costume that resembled, well, a baby stripper outfit. But I digress. We could launch into a dissertation on the insidious sexualization of children in culture. Or I could passive-aggressively blame my dad for parental oversight in letting me leave the house dressed like that. Or, I could just use this as a potent reminder that freaking out about a bad photo today is pointless. Future me might find something much worse lurking in the archives.
…Or, perhaps, I should just embrace the absurdity. Enlarge this gem, frame it, and let it…dance.
[
bath1-682](Framed awkward dance photo in the bathroom, a humorous take on self-acceptance)
Come on over to my place, use the restroom, and take comfort, dear friend, in knowing you will never dance alone. Especially not with this masterpiece watching over you. Maybe embracing the selfie isn’t so bad after all. If I survived that dance recital, I can survive anything – even a bad angle. And perhaps, just perhaps, there’s a little bit of “No Parking on the Dance Floor” spirit in us all. A willingness to get out there, even in a questionable outfit, and just dance.
