Avatars Gone By

There are very few photographs of me after the age of seven or so. This isn't because I object to photography or anything -- after all, my soul was already relinquished to the cold film of Kodak when I was an infant, so what do I care now? No, it just worked out that way.

So I was surprised last week when I was going through a bunch of photos my ex-wife gave me. They were mostly of our daughter, but slipped in among them was this one:

Behold the Fancy Rev. Fenderson in 1980, age 15

I've often marvelled that I don't feel fundamentally any different now than I did as a kid. As a youth picturing what I would be like at my age now, I was certain that I would view the world, and myself, very differently. Interesting how wrong I was. Sure, I have things that come with age -- I'm more skeptical, experienced, wiser, worn, and all that. But at heart, I'm still the same person.

Almost.

My first thought when I saw the photo was "hey, I wasn't a bad looking kid." This surprised me, because at the time I thought I was pretty seriously grotesque. Even once I became a shameless womanizer (that picture was taken by my Very First Lover, so the womanizing would still be a year or so away) I didn't shed my poor self-image until one shattering afternoon, talking with a woman who couldn't keep from speaking her honest opinions if she wanted to. I had asked her if I was attractive. She said "you're no Chippendale, but you're acceptable." There was no bullshit in that answer, and it changed my self-image forever. I could work with "acceptable".

Now when I look in the mirror, I see a body that is acceptably attractive. When the light is just right, "handsome" probably isn't too much of a stretch.

I wonder what I'll think when, in another 25 years, I see a picture of myself now.