The tomato soup

Do you remember the time I didn't like tomato soup? It was the only time my father had to resort to corporal punishment, the only time I remember. I really had driven him nuts and over the edge. One slap. It has not resolved the disliking issue, my body decided later and unrelatedly that tomatoes are a good thing.

You try, you might. Otherwise... In other words, those who don't try have no chance to succeed. Somehow this cliche came to mind the other night when, in public, my pictures were being taken by virtually unknown people. And I remembered how I loathed myself in pictures. Pretty much like I hated tomato soup. Or yogurt. Only much worse. Because that was me. All pimply, red, white, too tall, to skinny, too this, too that. Than I grew up, and I lost a load of complexes. Now I am making red and white be part of my coat of arms. And I let total strangers take my picture. And I search the Internet to find it and see: maybe I look OK.

(As things come and go, I wrote this post mentally. Then I forgot it. Now it's back.)