Oh God. The fight organisers are having promo posters made. Horror.
I can’t emphasise how much I absolutely hate having my photo taken. Always have. Weird? Maybe so (I know it often irritated my less than camera shy - yet much more photogenic - ex, anyway) but since this is one of those deep-rooted, however irrational, phobias, now doesn’t seem the best time to try and get to the bottom of it….
Inevitably then, this unexpected announcement sent me into a spasm of anxiety this week.
The first I knew of the plot was after sleeping through my alarm Tuesday morning, thus missing 6.30am training (What? I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather. C’mon, I’m doing my best here people!) and therefore, it turns out, the official photo call that was scheduled to take place straight after.
‘A photo of every fighter on the bill needs to be with the promoter by 10am’, I am informed by text message at 8.30. This is news to me!
And also, WTF? I’m now running late and I have to be in work by 9….
‘So what should I do?!’ I text back.
“Just take a picture on your phone and send it over, it should be fine.’
No, but it’s really not fine. In a panic I threw the essential kit - some hand wraps and a (dirty) fight tee - into my work bag on the way out the door: I’d just have to put the gear on in the toilets at the office, assume the standard boxer’s pose (paws up!) and ask a work mate to take the photo. How embarassing.
And it was. Thanks Anna for trying your best with the raw material. But a combination of lousy lighting in the ladies’ loos, the renowned crap quality of the iPhone camera (“Do you think we could get away with a Hipstamatic shot Anna?!”), an unfortunate bad hair day and that acute photo fear, and I am about to be immortalised forever on a fight promo poster looking, at best, like Aileen Wuornos.
Mortified. If you’re coming to the fight and happen upon this poster on a wall, please, can we just speak no more of this?