I am a model bitches! Well, I was for an hour. I didn’t get the full experience. I opted for french fries instead of cotton balls for lunch. My friend Kevin is a talented photographer. I needed a new head shot and he wanted pictures for his portfolio. Apparently, all that he is missing is the ‘middle-aged Mom with a kangaroo pouch’ shot. He sent me a text message a few days before our scheduled shoot.
I nearly spit out my milkshake reading it. High fashion? Does the clearance rack at Target count? What about the white, oversized, v-neck t-shirt I wear around the house? Now, I was nervous. I just wanted a new Twitter avatar. I do not have Rachel Zoe on speed dial.
Seeing all the lights and equipment set up in his studio was intimidating….at first. Then, my inner Giselle Bun-whatever the hell her last name is kicked in. I was 13 again making model faces in the mirror, Tim Gunn whispering, “Sofia” in my ear. (Wait, wrong show. I mean, “Make it work.”)
It was empowering. I never felt beautiful growing up. I was a wallflower at school dances. I didn’t have a lot of boyfriends. (Trust me, the girls who did blossomed way too soon.) When I finally got the courage to call a boy he made me feel worthless. Last check his hot body deflated (side effect of quitting steroids), never became a professional hockey player (shocker) and is a crackhead. (Allegedly) I don’t care if my kids are popular. I just want them to be confident, to realize they are perfect just the way they are.
I am sure a few of my Facebook “friends” are texting one another Who does she think she is? The only thing she can model is Spanx. Valid point.
When I left today my 6-year-old said, “Why does he want to take your picture?” He doesn’t think I am a troll, but just a regular old Mom. (Emphasis on old) After I showed him a picture he said, “Wow. You look like one of those famous people in a magazine.” I felt beautiful.