Off the Cuff / My Other Journal

Eeeeek! Passport Photos…

Sometimes life plays practical jokes on a person, and if that person is a goofy goose, anything covered within the Murphy’s Law may descend upon her.

My passport expired in March, and since I might travel out of the country again, a renewal was in order. So, after downloading a renewal form, I went to get my picture taken. Consequently, I am already reeling from jetlag even without stepping in an airplane.

To start with, I have difficulty assuming a blank expression on demand, even if normally my expression is blank. Then, the last time I had my passport photo taken in NYC, the photographer had told me to take my glasses off and to remain with no-laughing, no-smiling, no-grinning face with my mouth closed.

Closing my mouth? For me, climbing Everest would be easier; how can I resist the temptation to snicker or to make an offhand comment, but then, no grinning is also difficult, because I find I always have to grin at life, finding it so ridiculously funny.

This morning, therefore, I stood in front of the white background, took my glasses off, took off the headband holding my hair from spilling over my face, and looked into the photographer's shutter. I should have combed my hair and looked into a mirror before looking into the lens, but the photographer was waiting, and acting nonchalant is my modus operandi, even if inside me I am intolerably chalant.

Looking into the shutter also proved to be a task, because my eyes went out of control due to the existential torment brought on by the requirement of blank expression, and I stared at the photographer’s left cheek with the black, permanent Sharpie ink stain.

After he clicked and the posing ordeal was over, the discovery of the result became my second venture.

“Here you are,” said the photographer while placing the photos inside the bright blue card case. I took the case from him and unfolded it. The result almost made me shriek, but with another gargantuan effort, I forced that blank expression on myself again. When I raised my glance, I noticed the smirk on the photographer’s face. I still kept a straight face, I imagine, since all this was not really the photographer’s fault, although he could at least wipe off that smirk from his face. After all, wasn’t I nice enough not to comment about the ink stain on his left cheek?

Now, in the photo, I look like I am on the ten most wanted list. Even the shoe-bomber in the news looked more docile than me. Worse yet, I’ll have to contend with this passport for another ten years. On top of getting jet-lagged and confused about which airport we have landed on, I’ll have to put up with the photo on my passport and its implications. Still, I am too cheap and too traumatized to repeat the process.

I think…either I should stop traveling or I should brace myself for whatever may happen. Heaven forbid that I lose my bags or go into a wrong waiting line…

With this photo in my passport, you may never hear from me again.