In Photography

I can’t stop shaking.

My stomach has tied itself into a painful knot.

I just did the second most scary thing ever – second only to giving birth.  What did I just do?  I was the subject of a boudoir photo shoot.


A friend said to me recently, “How can you ask women to book you for a boudoir shoot when you are too scared to do one yourself?”

My initial reaction was “No way in hell can I do that.”

Even being asked that question made me nauseous from stress.

My entire body screamed “No!” at the prospect of being so vulnerable in front of the camera.  To be brutally honest, I don’t like to be seen naked even by my own husband, even in a dark bedroom.  I keep a tank top on, too afraid my husband will realize what a mess my midsection is (let’s be honest, I am sure he has figured it out!)  I am not blind, I know my body is a trainwreck.  It baffles me, truly, that my husband ever wants to mess around with it.  But the prospect of seeing it all spelled out, pixel by irrefutable pixel, had me peeing my pants in terror.


I was a solid no for at least 24 hours.  Then my logical brain started to quietly chime in.  “She is right” it said.


So instead of listening to my body, which was shouting “I can’t”, I decided to listen to my logical brain.

“How can I?”


I started to think abstractly: where and when could I make this happen; whom would I trust with the camera; what on earth would I wear?  And most importantly, can I get an entire crate of wine delivered to my house, and if so, will it be sufficient????


In the end, I decided the only person I trusted to do this for me was my husband, in the comfort of my own home.  I started constructing the session in my mind, putting ideas together for poses and outfits.


We arranged for Grandma to take the 3 munchkins for the evening.  Then we got to work.  I let my darling husband pose me and tweak my outfit choices.  I wanted these pictures to be at least partly his vision – I wanted to see myself through his eyes, instead of mine.


And in lieu of wine, I went straight for the vodka.


Now I have a folder of racy pictures of myself and I am too scared to peek.  Scared to face the truth of my mom-body.  Scared to look at the stranger I have become and accept my reality.


Do I open this Pandora’s box, or let it stay closed???


To be continued……





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