WYSIWYG

I'm never expecting the crone I see in the selfie mode of my phone camera.  The sagging flesh, the wrinkles, the pouches, the stray eyebrow hairs, the blotches, the frizzy wild hair.  The mirror in my deliberately under-lit bathroom usually compromises while I gaze.  Make me 32.  No, but I'll make you 42, how's that.  

I don't work that hard, mind you.  I'm not applying makeup.

I did the thing where you try different angles with the phone to see if I could see something other than the dreaded crone.

I found a much younger version of myself by putting the camera over my head and aiming down, thereby reducing the visibility of my under-eye pouches while including a view that encompassed my tank top and jeans stretched out in an alluring, 32-year-old manner. 

Then I decided to linger on the ugliest views of my face too, while changing filters.  I spent maybe ten minutes doing this, ending with the crone, in chrome.  

I am what I am.  

Childlike, girlish, nubile, womanly, matronly, wizened, wise.  

Hideous, ugly, unremarkable, cute, beautiful.