Remember the hook from the hit song by the Chainsmokers back in 2014 – “But first, let me take a selfie”?
When that faintly irritating track was dominating the dance charts, the selfie phenomenon was fairly new, but it didn’t take long for it to catch on and become part of the zeitgeist of the decade to follow.
Paris Hilton could often be found posing (for herself) with myriad celebrity friends, and once the Kardashians became au fait with the tips, tricks and angles to use, there was no turning back. Before we knew it, we were getting bonked in the head by over-eager tourists brandishing their selfie sticks in the middle of Times Square, Trafalgar Square, the Great Wall of China, and anywhere else capable of accommodating a two-foot mobile phone extension.
I never really got into the selfie thing. I tried a couple of times when I wanted to see what I looked like in a ridiculous costume or evening gown, but I just could not get the hang of it. Either my thumb would be in the way, I’d look like a startled horse, or the light did absolutely nothing for my complexion. I don’t think I realised what an art there was to this whole business until a friend suggested we take a selfie. I initially demurred, before she added that she was “really good at taking these”. I snorted – much like the startled horse previously mentioned – but dutifully smiled at the camera. Well – what a revelation! I was stunning! My skin was glowing, my eyes were mermerising, and not a double chin in sight.
“Oh, yes – I know how to hold it the right way and it makes all the difference,” she said.
I was certainly sold.
After that, I tried it a few more times, but I just couldn’t manage to recapture the magic, so I stuck with the old-fashioned way: Grabbing complete strangers and asking them to take my picture.
Anyhoo, I just got back from a weekend in Miami, which seems to be Selfie Central. Best friend Lynne and I stayed at the Kimpton EPIC, and everwhere we went, suspiciously flawless women in 20-inch heels were pursing their lips for their phones. It must have been a real heartbreaker when these wannabe influencers looked at the footage at the end of each night, only to see my derrière photo-bombing their every pic. I couldn’t avoid it happening. We’d be walking into the hotel, out of the hotel, towards an Uber, off to raid the shelves at Whole Foods… no matter where we were heading, I’d be practically tripping over a Stepford Wife who was sitting and posing for Instagram or TikTok.
We had both felt a bit like the Golden Girls at points in the trip, but no more so than when we went for dinner at Sexy Fish. A feast for the senses, I’ve never been anywhere quite like it. There were huge sculptures of marine creatures, all covered in glittery material, with a massive fish tank and mermaids on almost every wall. The bathrooms were floor-to-ceiling mosaics of mythical underwater creatures, and although I wasn’t a fan of the mirror on the inside of each cubicle door, I had to give the designer props for the beauty of the facilities.
The DJ was pumping out the music (“It’s very loud,” said my so-hip buddy, as she clutched her ears) and I had to hold my breath to slide between the dining tables. As far as the eye could see, there were groups of young, stylish diners wearing designer-branded everything, effortlessly moving through the restaurant as though skating on ice. We had to ask the server to repeat the specials a couple of times, and when another server came up to grab our menus, I yelled, “I don’t know how you work in here”, at her, gesticulating at the speakers in the ceiling. I got a smile in response indicating she had no idea what I had just said. I rested my case.
By the time we were leaving Sexy Fish, I felt more like a Drab Mollusk. I suggested we go for after-dinner drinks at the new Hell’s Kitchen spot a stone’s throw from our hotel, and Lynne was up for that too.
As we sat at the bar, enjoying our cocktails, I admired the decor of the restaurant behind us.
“Hey,” I said. “Why don’t we try taking a selfie?”
“Sure, okay,” she replied, a little reluctantly.
I held up the camera, and the shenanigans began. I wasn’t getting the right angle; then, somehow, I was covering the lens with a finger. I readjusted. I seemed to looked good, but Lynne didn’t. Then she looked good, but I looked hideous. Just before my arm threatened to break from my shoulder, I snapped the shot. Eagerly, I switched to my photo reel. There it was. I was the spitting image of Buddy Hackett (how could my nose possibly be that size?) and Lynne looked sallow and tired.
We couldn’t be bothered to try again, so we asked the bartender to snap us instead. I was no Cindy Crawford, but mercifully there was now no logical way to link me to the Hackett family tree. We paid for our drinks, walked back to the EPIC, tripped over another influencer and headed to our room.
In light of all of this, certainly as far as I’m concerned, the Chainsmokers’ song lyrics could probably use a tweak. I propose: “But last, only if absolutely necessary, let me take a selfie.”
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