First of all, yes, this is me, thirty years ago.
Oh my gosh… thirty freaking years ago.
Ok, now that that’s out of the way, this is a photograph of one of my first memories, and it has an interesting and somewhat adorable story to it.
I have always remembered the time when my father drew me a clown so that I would color it in. I was very excited, and colored it really really well, I was quite proud of the outcome, I had kept the brush within the lines very very well.
So I walk up to my dad, and I proudly present him our joined work of art.
He looked at it and laughed, and then told me “that’s all wrong”.
My heart was broken.
He the told me to go outside and stand in the varanda, and took this photograph.
Can you see the heart ache?
OH MY GOD I WAS SO FREAKING CUTE! Look at that pout.
Yes, my favorite color was red. No, this was not a creepy kid painting a bloodied psycho clown. I really really thought I had done an excellent job.
Now the interesting bit is that as I grew, and my idea of ‘correct coloring in’ changed, so did my memory of this moment. I genuinely thought my father had been unfair, and that I had painted it very well, with several colors.
Then, decades later, I found this photo.
Interesting how the mind works.