I was scrolling through Instagram the other day when I saw a flyer for a party my husband and I usually attend. Early bird tickets were going on sale, so I clicked through to see what was happening.
They had pictures from previous events. People dancing, having a good time. I’m scrolling, scrolling, scrolling.
Wait.
Is that me?
I looked a little closer.
Oh, that’s definitely me.
But cuter.
I remember that picture. The event photographer took it. I remember posing for it. And somewhere between me posing and that flyer going up, somebody ran my face through AI.
Without consulting me.
I had eyelashes I didn’t arrive with. My nose was slimmer. My top lip was fuller. My skin was flawless. I looked like myself after someone ran my face through a checklist and made a few executive decisions.
I screenshotted it immediately and sent it to my husband and the kids. Then my friends.
And I have questions.
Who authorized this? What exactly was wrong with my original face?
Because I looked perfectly fine at that party. I got dressed and left the house feeling cute. Nobody pulled me aside at the entrance and said, “Ma’am, before we let you in, there are a few things we’d like to discuss.”
But somebody looked at me and decided, she’s cute. She could be cuter. For marketing purposes.
The nerve.
And if we’re just out here making unauthorized improvements to women’s bodies, why stop at my face? You gave me lashes and a lip but couldn’t throw in a little extra cleavage?
You had the technology.
I’m kidding. Mostly.
I have another picture from that same night. A friend took it. I liked it enough to post it myself. No AI.
I can’t look at that one the same way now.
I wasn’t sitting around wondering what I’d look like with a different nose. Now apparently I have that information.
Because now I’m wondering if I should start wearing lashes when I go out. Do I need a lip plumper, since apparently my top lip needs help?
And my hair. They gave me thicker hair too.
I’m offended. I’m also still looking at her.
I hate that I love that picture. And I hate that I’m comparing myself to a woman who doesn’t exist. She has my face and my outfit. She posed for the same photographer. She just got a few upgrades on the way to Instagram.
I still don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.
But if somebody is going to take the liberty of redesigning my face without asking, I have one final complaint.
You forgot the boobs.