I looked through my high school yearbooks. Yeah. Those things.

I once wore plaid shirts aplenty.

And there is photographic evidence of this baffling lumberjack phase in my high school yearbooks. (Yes, that’s plural: this phase spanned at least two years, during which I also wore lots of sports shorts and steel-toed army boots, though thankfully not simultaneously.)

There is also evidence of:

  • not wearing makeup
  • a phobia of tweezers (thus suffering from caterpillar brow)
  • blow drying my hair straight… ish
  • an obsession with dark colours that washed out my complexion, made worse by the fact I didn’t wear makeup
  • not having a life, since there’s no pictures of me in sports or clubs until Grade 11 (If they would have had a bookworm club, I would have been all up in that.)
  • not having a boyfriend, for I was not photographed in the hallway in the octopus pose
  • thumbing through the pages endlessly because that was the only crush-stalking you could do pre-Facebook


Remember that last day of the year? Yes, rushing to see if there’s any terrible photographs of you and any awesome shots of your crush du jour. Ah.

There’s nothing like flipping through the ol’ high school yearbooks to bring back the onslaught of terrors memories of high school. Those I’ll get into another day. I don’t think I have enough time to type them all out right now or this week or ever.

But I thought I could take the time to reflect on the pictures. Back before Facebook and Twitter, the yearbook was the spot where you could check out grainy photo memories, blurry photo memories, black and white photo memories. (We did have colour photographs back then, but the school yearbook budget couldn’t handle colour printing.)

I don’t think this next photograph is in the yearbook (it happened too late in the year to make the publication date) but it sums up my luck with photographs.

If you’re having trouble picking me out, I’m the one looking clean, well-groomed, and not unattractive.


In group photos, there’s apt to be one person who doesn’t look quite right.

That would be me.

Needless to say, I was delighted to have professional photos done for my graduation. They were the expensive kind, done by a real photographer back in the day before everyone and their dog had a digital camera. This particular photographer had done my brother’s pictures seven years before, so I figured he wouldn’t steal my soul. I also figured he wouldn’t make my crooked chin look crooked.

Thus, I did my makeup. The fancy foundation AND lip liner kind of makeup.

In other words, I did what I do occasionally for weddings, proms, and other date-like things in which the odds are high someone might photograph me or judge me based on my ability to apply minerals and pigments.

Bless professional photographers, who take enough photographs to ensure one will pass muster for the yearbook. And not just any yearbook.

The last yearbook in which you will ever appear unless you go back to work at a school.

Yes, I’m happy as a clam with this picture.

My eyes are open.


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