"Do you want a new photo?" asked the
I.D.-making lady. "Yes, that one's old," the art student getting a replacement card
I almost snickered while waiting for my Pratt gym access card to print
out. The full two minutes I'd been standing at the counter, the young man
trying to get his photo updated on his student I. D. had
been primping, hair-fixing, iPhone camera in the air, using self-portrait mode as a
"Chill, it's just a fucking photo," I wanted to say. I hadn't
even bothered to put on make-up or take off my parka since I was on the way to
the gym and the only person who'll ever see my I.D. is the work study student
manning the gym desk. I still prefer not to run into anyone I know in this frump state, something known to happen in Carroll Gardens but wuldn't occur in Clinton Hill since I don't know anyone.
My laidback attitude changed, though, when my card was
handed over and I looked like a truly middle-aged maniac, puffy like I'd been crying or was hungover (neither true) hair disheveled and
flying away, ruddy, near rosacea-like skin and marionette lines that I didn't think I'd developed yet since I don't see them when looking in a mirror. I thought pouchy undereyes were my facial concern, not nose-to-chin creases.
The kid had it