Last week, I came home to find a daunting white envelope in my mailbox addressed to a certain Abigail of building number 698. I was expecting this package with dread. Any possibility of confusion was shattered when my eyes fell upon the return address of Thornton Studio Photographers. “DO NOT BEND PHOTOGRAPHS,” the package commanded, leaving no question in my mind that I was holding the one of 10 pictures that my classmates would remember me by for years to come. Me, in all my disheveled and uneven eyebrow-ed glory. The one picture that my grandkids will point at and wonder why my mom even let me out of the apartment that day. To be honest, I can’t remember why either.

I do remember rolling out of bed that fated morning and wishing I had a few extra minutes to make myself presentable. It was September 11, 2008—as if my portrait sitting needed a worse omen.

When my information card read that the sitting was to take place at one o’clock, I truly believed that I would go to the first floor, take my pictures and leave—all in under 15 minutes. I was horribly mistaken. Upon descending the steps to the first floor, I was met by a long and slow procession of seniors who had already been waiting around for a period or so. It was all very peculiar and disorganized. The photography staff attempted to herd the crowd of irritable seniors into a single-file line, but that just wasn’t happening.

And so I began my three-hour wait for my yearbook photograph. “I’m going to make me some chicken tonight! Mmm, mmm,” one employee said. I silently wished the line would move faster.

When it was time to pose, I was quite underwhelmed by the whole process. The photographers shuffled us along in an assembly-line fashion through three stations. In speeding up the whole process, weary seniors were left disillusioned with the supposed grandeur of graduation photo day. Each photographer was followed by another who was more clichéd than the first, shouting lively peps like “hello, sugar!,” “smile, darling!” and “bee-yoo-tiful” at me. I felt my smile growing faker by the second.

One photographer claimed I was Hungarian upon seeing me. I couldn’t convince him otherwise. As he sat me down, I noticed a ferocious mat of dark chest hair spilling out of his open dress shirt. I probably looked horrified in this set of pictures.

As Hairy Chest reached around my neck to secure graduation robes on my body, I realized that garment wasn’t even real. It was a smock! As I sat there in horror, he curled my hands around a diploma and a graduation hat to complete the general awkwardness of the photo. It wasn’t enough that I was wearing a smock—I had to look like I had claws for hands as well. All for the picture, I suppose.

I realized then that I had been building up to this moment for weeks. I expected the process to be more lavish and enjoyable but left feeling as if a part of my soul had been stored away into digital film. I ended up missing the last four periods of my day, though, so I suppose the session had a few redeeming qualities.

When I opened the package, I could only imagine how awful my pictures came out. I remember having horrendous zits that day and being covered in sweat. My mom would be so ashamed of her only daughter. But as I flipped through my prospective time capsules, I noticed that the zits were nowhere to be found. My skin had a healthy glow. Even my pink strand of hair seemed to fit in. Maybe all my imperfections were airbrushed out; maybe it was just magic—I’ll never know, but my pictures turned out okay.

Aside from all my complaining, I have to admit—Thornton Studio did an acceptable job. Not so much in terms of organization, but they definitely did complete their task successfully and they left me with at least one satisfactory photo.

And when I showed my mom the pictures, she approved. Now I just pray the Indicator prints my photo in one piece.