It’s that time of the decade again – time to renew our passports. And, as often happens with B. and me, the occasion resembled more a Marx Brothers movie than smooth sailing. Honk, honk.

The online renewal option should have made it a breeze. (Previous passport-getting adventures had involved long lines at the post office, a long application, and a longing to get the hell out of Dodge.) Easy-peasy. What could be so difficult?

The photos, that’s what. To wit:

With earlier passports, we had the photos taken either at the post office or at a drugstore, attached them to our mail-in applications, and voilà! No problems.

This time, we went to a retailer, sat in the perfectly placed seat in front of the perfectly placed ring light, and, following instructions, did not say cheese. We received actual photos and a flash drive with the digital versions. The employee who took the shots assured us that the equipment was preset according to passport regulations, so we okayed our photos when he showed them to us on the camera. Maybe we were a bit hasty.

Because in looking at them on my laptop at home, B. looked terrific (who looks that good in a passport photo?) but I thought my face was too big, my hair too strange, and what the hell was going on with the color of my shirt (a very flattering berry shade – only not in the photo). I bore a disturbing resemblance to Weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon in the movie).

Forget that I hate my driver’s license photo but have lived with it for years; forget that the passport photo would only be seen by a customs agent probably not even once a year; and forget that I have better things to do with my time and money than to have a second one taken. I decided to try again, much to B.’s befuddlement. (“Really? It’s just a silly passport photo.” “Easy for you to say, Mr. Photogenic!”)

The new photo came out a bit better (but still not great); however, it seemed like it was taken from too far away. How could the cameras in both locations have been preset correctly and the two photos be so different in terms of distance?

Giving up on finding photo nirvana (and wanting to start the online application process), I actually decided to go with the first shot. It just seemed more in keeping with my previous passport photos, distance-from-camera-wise. Good thinking, right?

Wrong. Photo denied. Not accepted. You suck – use another photo. Okay, then. I guess we’ll try uploading the faraway-looking shot. It worked. Time for the Snoopy happy dance until we realized – oh, no, if my close-up photo from the first store was deemed unacceptable, what about B.’s?

Bzzzt. You lose. Your picture is garbage, Handsome Guy. “You know what this means, don’t you?” I couldn’t help zetzing B. (translation: poking the bear). He looked at me warily. “It means my vanity paid off!” “Yeah, yeah.”

New strategy: the take-your-own-photo solution. Cue the Marx Brothers mayhem.

Passport photos must be taken in front of a white background in bright light with no shadows; ergo, we ran full-tilt from room to room, practically colliding with each other, searching for a white wall. Before we realized that we have no white walls in our apartment. Ecru, cream, ivory – whatever you want to call it, yes, but not white. (There’s also a pumpkin-colored wall, but that didn’t work. Obviously). And the early-evening darkness coming through the windows, combined with our warm, cozy lamps, didn’t help. Test shot after test shot just turned out too dark.

But then. I was just about to give up hope when I saw it. Stashed in a closet in our den was a rolled-up museum poster we had purchased but had never hung because it was too big to frame.

“That’s it!” I shouted, jumping out of my bunny slippers with excitement (and falling down in the bargain). B. grabbed me and I grabbed the poster, unrolling it to reveal its brilliant white reverse side. Using painters’ tape, we attached it to our double-pantry doors under the bright lights in the kitchen and – you guessed it – a photo op was born. Click.

Finally, the moment of truth: upload the photo and – wait for it – success! (It made that unhangable poster worth every cent.) B. doesn’t look quite as terrific, but you can’t travel on good looks alone. And me, I’m thinking that looking good while playing in, say, Paris, is more important than looking good in the passport that takes you there.

Our new passports arrived today and, amazingly, we don’t look half bad.

Bon voyage, indeed.

©2024 Claudia Grossman