Except when I say "photos of myself," I don't actually mean I'm going to post photos of myself. Just tell you about having photos taken of myself.
It's for a new local magazine I'm editing. You know how the editor's letter in most magazines has a photo of the editor? This was a photo shoot for that photo. I had a fabulous photographer, and our truly fabulous art director came along to make sure my hair didn't look wonky and the photog got enough space around my face for the layout and whatnot.
A couple of weeks ago, we finished up a series of photo shoots where we took photos of locals for the first issue of this magazine. And I remember how we made most of these people hold poses that, to them, felt unnatural, but looked great. I found this morning that being in front of the camera is waaaaay harder than being the one behind it, yelling directions.
I have a feeling this probably has something to do with not being in control. Being professionially photographed feels awkward and vulnerable. A zillion worries ran in a continuous loop through my mind, including but not limited to the following:
- is there shininess on my forehead, nose, chin
- do I look fat
- do I have lipstick on my teeth
- is my cardigan hanging crooked
- do I look fat
- is my hair flat
- is my hair frizzy
- oh, and do I look fat.
Kind of takes the joy out of being photographed, if there is joy to be had being photographed. It gave me a new appreciation for models - their job isn't all standing around, looking bored. I'd like to think that if you only weighed 95 lbs. that would probably help make it a more confident experience, but knowing women, it probably wouldn't.
Later, once the photos came back and my art director sent me "the money shot,"all I could see when I opened the image were my flaws. Sigh. At least it's out of the way and I can go back to where I'm most comfortable: gleefully editing articles.
--- (this is my lack of transition) ---
I hope you had a great long weekend! We had a relaxing one, and took Will to see his first fireworks on Monday night. I fully expected him to freak out at the noise - prompting us to leave early - but he was a champ. It was way past his bedtime, but he sat in my lap, mesmerized by the fireworks. He only fussed occasionally. A brave boy!
I wish I had a photo of his sweet little face as he watched, but of course it was dark and my iPhone wouldn't oblige. But I felt an overwhelming joy as I watched him watch the fireworks, remembering this time last year and how far he's come.
Last 4th of July, he was still in the NICU. JB and I watched the fireworks from the same spot as this year, and when they were over, we drove to the hospital to visit him. Here's a photo my Dad sent yesterday, taken July 4 of last year:
So tiny. Believe it or not, he was so much bigger and better then than he was after he was born. He got to come home about three weeks later.
Here is one I took this past weekend, of Will in his little crab pool in our back yard:
So big and joyful! Happy belated 4th of July :)