My Parents — Did HockneyYou know those times when someone shares an old photograph of you? From a time that’s already slipping out of memory? It happens a lot these days on WhatsApp groups.
How does it feel to look at those photos? Or more importantly — how does it feel to see yourself in a group photo, surrounded by a bunch of now-irrelevant extras? I know what you do. I do it too. You zoom in and look only at yourself. Even if there are better-looking people and more interesting faces in the picture, your eyes go straight to you.
When I look at photos from my past — childhood, college, and work life — I see various versions of myself, often wearing clothes at least a generation behind what was cool at the time. But I never mind what I see. Sure, I could’ve been taller. My stomach could’ve been more restrained. But overall, I look at myself and think: Prince of the group photo. I look at the others only to check how badly they’ve aged in comparison. I’m usually pleased.
I sometimes wonder — do people who are objectively unattractive also think they’re the prince or princess in group photos? Do they look at themselves with the same affection we do? I doubt it. But I assume they still look at themselves — maybe just to check in the hope it’s an overlooked miracle and they actually look tolerable. I would’ve I think.
And what happens to the bona fide beautiful people? Do they, as they age, look at older and older photos and just keep seeing better and better versions of themselves? Does each photo lee a sting? Do they weep a little every time they walk down memory lane? We’ll never know this either.
Strangely, as people get older, I feel the difference between beautiful and unattractive starts to fade. Not that the unattractive become beautiful — it’s more that beauty just becomes… less beautiful, to put it politely. Everyone softens, blurs at the edges. We all start looking a little like each other.
When I see old pictures of myself, I try to look past the face. I try to catch the look in my eyes. Were they focused or far away? Was there a spark, a purpose? Did I look as bright as I imagine myself to be? I don’t get very far with this. So then I try something else. I try to embody that person — try to be the version of me in the photo. What was he thinking? What was he feeling? I find this little act of imagination strangely moving.
When I imagine my college days, I see a newly minted adult — a bird just released from the cage, unsure but excited. I remember the anticipation in my chest, the googly eyes, the desire to try out new things, go to new places. But beneath that excitement, there was always a background hum of confusion. A low, persistent lostness. Like I didn’t really belong here.
Interestingly, I remember feeling that way even as a child. Which makes sense — kids don’t really belong to every place they’re taken to. But it’s something I carried into adulthood. Even at work — especially early in my career — I looked sorted from the outside, at least when sober. But inside, I was always unsure. I always felt a little like an outsider.
I don’t say this to romanticise it. It wasn’t a cool kind of outsider-ness. It was confusion, plain and simple.
What do I mean by that? I mean I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what I wanted. My decisions — the things I did and didn’t do — weren’t made from conviction or ambition. They weren’t even filtered through values. They were just… convenient. When at a crossroad, I took what seemed like the easier path. If it became hard later, it didn’t matter. I just adapted. But my compass, all along, was convenience.
It sounds like a cop-out. But honestly, I don’t know how I feel about it. I’ve heard all the advice: take the hard road, do difficult things, embrace the unexpected, stretch your limits, and so on. It all sounds very inspiring on podcasts. But I didn’t do that. Maybe I was weak-hearted. Maybe I didn’t want the hardships adventure promised. And you know what? I’m okay with that. I might even recommend it. If not an easy life, it gives you at least the illusion of one — and often, that’s enough.
By the way, a quick word on Robert Frost. That line — “I took the road less trelled, and that made all the difference” — your English teacher probably told you it’s about brery and choosing a tough path. They were wrong. The poet was being ironic. He’s mocking the way we look back and exaggerate our choices. Read the whole poem. Or just check Wikipedia. The two roads were pretty much the same.
He’s just romanticising his past decision after the fact — like most of us do. Most, not all. We, as you know, are different. We are the people who look ourselves in the eye, long and hard, and smile. I think we like what we see. We always did.