The serenity of margaritas

"Hold still," Andrew said. "I'm going to take your new headshot."

"What?" I said, partly because I believed I didn't entirely hear him correctly, partly because I was distracted by the stunningly attractive Brit seated at my left arm and partly because, if I had heard correctly, he was due a correction, because I didn't have an old headshot.

Well, that's not entirely true. I do, in fact, have an old headshot. It is, in keeping with the unwritten regulations of the Actors Equity Association (of which I am not a member) regarding headshots, at least ten years out of date and actually closer to 15. It looks nothing like me.

"I said," he said, "I'm going to take your new headshot." And then he did.



I like it very much. It looks like me, although not enough like me that I actively hate it. It captures me in my natural and preferred habitat: at a bar, in the company of friends, with an attractive man open to guileless flirting at my side. I like it because it was taken by a smart, witty person in Austin, Texas, my third favorite place in the world, just like my last—and still—favorite picture of me.

My only regret is that rather unbecoming white lanyard. Nooses or neckties, lanyards or layers of worry...there's always something around my neck, I suppose. I only wish it'd been the arms of the Brit.

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