I've always been super paranoid about having my pic taken, for no particular reason (I don't have much of a soul to begin with, need to keep what's left ;) ). When I was in, cameras were a rarity / easily avoided. Even so, if I couldn't avoid it, I'd grab the thing and take the shot if possible. It's what originally got me into photography: realizing that if I'm behind the camera I'm safe. Added bonus, it's like this really awesome "freak out in public and no one notices tool". Because photographers are always doing all kinds of weird shit. Climbing up on things, crouching down below stuff, staring off into space, running off. (All to "get the shot". Snort. Sure. That's what I was doing.)
So, like 8 years later? My ex comes home from school holding a poster with this shiteating grin. I was on a goddamn USMC recruiting poster up at the college. Clearly not in blues. Spent the next few days throwing up with "must have been something I ate". I was still more than a little bitter at that point. And I could remember the whole day it was taken. I was wearing borrowed camis. Had been out in town, barely caught my ride. Dressing as we drove in, boots still untied as we were running across the Tarmac. Unsat as f*ck. He was 6'5 and I'm 6flat, so I rolled the sleeves wrong. Pic taken ages later, all squared away (I had one sleeve shoved up in my vest, so ish), but every detail of that day just hit me like a punch to the gut. So, so sick. I hadn't even remembered that exercise until I saw the poster, much less the day. All I could smell for days after seeing that poster was this guy's CK cologne and JP5.
I don't know what I'd do in modern shit, with iPhones and film and reporters. I'd say lose my ever lovin mind, but that ship has sailed.