My beloved teasingly took several photographs of me in profile as we were having our coffee this morning. When she showed them to me, I was flabbergasted. The blubber hanging under my chin was the worst bit, but the crumpled skin around my eyes was not much better. The hooked nose was there all right, but it looked dreadfully stunted next to my sagging cheeks. The gray hair was not a surprise, but my receding hairline certainly was. She just giggled: “You would not recognize yourself, right?” I nodded in agreement. “I rarely see myself in profile,” I mumbled defensively as I kept shaking my head in disbelief. But the bloated geezer in those photos was definitely not myself. I see myself entirely differently. I am handsome and manly. I am youthful and powerful. And so forth. “Well,” I concluded, “I’m surely not photogenic.” My beloved kept giggling all the while, but she had no idea how to cajole me. In the end, I felt sorry for her on account of my pitiful looks. In profile, at least.