No, they weren’t that kind of photo! We had our clothes on, it was all quite innocent. It was a photo of me and my husband with one of my childhood friends. We had just helped her move into her new apartment in Tucson and the three of us sat on the bottom step and took a photo together. Seeing it reminded me of happy times and I thought she would feel the same. Boy was I wrong!
REMOVE PHOTO- URGENT!!!!
please… please… please remove that photo of me on your website …. I’d really appreciate it!!!!!!!! I do not like photos of me – especially from the past on anyone’s site – PLEASE!!!!! take down IMMEDIATELY. Any photos of me – and our past PLEASE KEEP PRIVATE AND PERSONAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Believe it or not, I don’t spend all my time on the internet =) So I didn’t see her URGENT message until Sunday. But while I was cooking dinner for my family on Saturday evening, the phone rang.
“Sherrie? It’s ____________ ______________. PLEASE take down that photo you posted of me on Facebook.”
No hello, no how ya doin’ or I’ve missed you. I was surprised. I didn’t know what to say. But apparently my silence spoke volumes.
“You’re upset?” She sounded amazed.
“Well, yeah I’m upset. I haven’t heard from you in years and now the only thing you’re calling me for is to say you don’t like the photo I posted of us on Facebook?”
“I have to protect my image. I don’t like old photos of myself and I can’t have them floating around out there.”
I should probably explain here that my “friend” is on TV. She’s a newscaster on a Los Angeles channel. And she dates the weatherman. So I’m sure that when she goes out, some people recognize her. She’s not like Katie Couric famous, but people kinda know her around L.A. So not to be mean, but we aren’t talking about major stardom here. And since we’ve known each other since she was 12 and I was 14, I’ve got WAY worse pictures I could post of her. I wasn’t trying to infringe on her image or exploit her or anything. It was just a photo that reminded me of a good time with a good friend. My mistake.
I fought back tears and tried to control my voice as I spoke to her. It wasn’t just that she yelled at me. It wasn’t even the fact that she was obviously in the throes of some overblown superiority complex.
I thought of us at summer camp singing “The Little Green Frog” and acting like total dorks. I remembered sleepovers and sailing, going to the mall and flirting with strangers, driving through Beverly Hills acting like we ruled the world. I’d visited her in Miami when her career started to grow, listened to her cry when her mother died. We hadn’t been as close the last few years, but we’d always been able to pick up where we left off. Until now.
Who was this person on the phone telling me to keep our past private? Why was she suddenly ashamed to be associated with me? Or was she worried that people might realize she had her nose fixed and her hair isn’t naturally blonde? No one in L.A. is a natural blonde. Who cares?
I felt like a part of me died as I listened to her going on and on about her hair and her image. I wanted to be 14 again or 20 or anywhere but here, listening to her voice and realizing how different we’d become.