Right now I am on the hunt for a picture frame to showcase what is arguably the worst photo ever taken of me.
All I have is a wrinkled photocopy of the image, tucked in my desk drawer at home. It's a two-by-two inch, black and white chronicle of my past, complete with disheveled hair, runny mascara and teary cheeks.
Who said mugshots were ever pretty?
True story: not three days after I pleaded guilty to my 2003 DUI charges, I used said mugshot to get into a bar. I took a timeout (389 days) from drinking the day after my arrest, but I still liked to barhop with all my old pals. A bunch of us bible study folks (yes, I said this is a true story) went for a round after a day of ice skating, and well, seeing as I didn't have my driver's license on me, I used the printout to prove my age. I figured any legal paperwork from the Fayette Co. Detention Center was good enough to pass as proper ID.
My parents love that story.
They didn't love the whole DUI fiasco, but they loved me anyway, and I guess that's the point, isn't it?
We don't keep secrets in my nuclear family. When the shit hits the fan, we're a talking/yelling/fighting/crying/hugging kind of family. We don't pick at each other's flaws, faults and indiscretions because we know we're all vulnerable to that silly game called Judgment.
As I see it, most family secrets aren't any big effin' deal, anyway.
I think some people have a tough time coming to terms with their past. They'd rather float through life in a cloudy facade of denial and perfection, instead of admitting their faults and mistakes.
That, I don't mind.
What I mind is these very same people casting arrogance and judgment on family members for the sake of making themselves feel better or look better to the outside world.
That's what's shameful.