Several months ago, I tired of the generic looking graphic design that Gravatar assigned to me as a profile picture every time I left a comment on someone else’s blog. It bothered me enough that I actually went to the trouble of opening my Gravatar account and messing with the settings.
Logging in alone was no small feat — I am not a master IT person by any stretch (it is by the shear grace of god — or Al Gore? — that I don’t still have an AOL account; you get the picture?). I twiddled and poked (wow, that sounds kinda wrong — I hope it doesn’t alert the censors), and finally managed to upload a photo as my profile picture. Not surprisingly, I chose the image that is the masthead for my blog — my fantastic nursing-era cleavage and my infant’s hand aiming to cop a feel. I followed all the rules, and was delighted to see my picture staring back at me when I looked at my own Gravatar profile.
Weeks passed, and I began to notice that when I commented on other blogs, I was still faced with some stupid, abstract image sitting next to my words rather than the picture I had uploaded. Flummoxed, I bravely journeyed again into the dim world of my Gravatar settings. There my own breasts sat, happily staring back at me under the gentle hand of my sweet, nursing infant. I made sure that I had selected the picture. I uploaded other pictures. I re-uploaded the original picture to see if it might take on the second go-around. No dice.
For over a year now, I have bean grimacing in disbelief and bewilderment every time I see some random graphic displayed next to my
witty and thought-provoking (OK, maybe I am exaggerating) typed comments. It has bugged me like that piece of popcorn that sometimes gets lodged in one of my tonsils for a day or two. I am annoyed by it, but find myself feeling impotent. It just becomes this vague nagging knowledge that something is not quite right (God, I hope it’s not made my breath stink like the popcorn does).
Tonight, I tired of it again, and despite my lack of luck with the popcorn, I decided to refocus my energies on the problem of the missing picture. I must have pushed some new buttons or pulled down some new menus. Or maybe they have just dumbed down the system making it easier for dimwitted AOL heads like me. Tonight, with relative ease, I discovered the problem: my boobs! I haven’t decided yet if my official stance is flattered or annoyed. Perhaps I am standing in two spots?
Apparently, some person (or program — wow! Can you imagine, a whole program just looking for boobs like mine?) deemed my boobs unworthy of a “G” rating. That’s right, biatches! My boobies are “PG” (at least according to some entity at Gravatar). Personally, I like to imagine that this “entity” is some delicious slice of tall dark and handsome who had to take extra time scrutinizing my overflowing cups and marveling at the cute, dimpled knuckles on my infant’s adorable digits. Regardless of the sort of package this entity comes in (hee-hee, I just said “package” and “comes” in the same sentence — censor that!), it has declared my boobage unfit for general audiences. As a result, anytime I’ve left a comment on a blog with a “G” rating, Gravatar has graciously protected the public at large from my offending cleavage.
For a moment, I am tempted to jump on the nursing-mothers-who-think-that-Facebook-is-evil-for-editing-nursing-shots bandwagon. Alas, I am too busy celebrating the fact that for the first time in my life someone (ok, maybe it was a program. Who cares! They are pretty smart you know. Why you gotta hate?) noticed my boobs! I’ve been waiting for this day since the sixth grade!
Unfortunately, such unprecedented attention has caused me to remove my fantastic cleavage shot from my Gravatar profile. Isn’t that just the way it is; as soon as you notice someone’s boobs, poof! They are hidden from view.