Naked

Most women have a complicated relationship with Naked and I’m really no different. Over the years though, I’ve gotten a bit more confrontational with Naked than others. For starters, there were all those years of theatre, which are a blur of dressing rooms, backstage quick changes and long sessions of being measured by different costumers every place from mid-stage to a broom closet.  I reached a point where I shared my bra size as openly and cavalierly as I would share my shoe size because I knew that hiding that information would only result in badly fitting costumes and that isn’t what anyone is after onstage.  I feel safe in saying that nearly everyone in my college drama department saw me in my underwear at least once in my four years there, probably more often because we had a couple of theme costume parties where lingerie was de rigeur. But I digress.

My real confrontation with Naked came about in my mid-twenties. I was working as an administrative assistant at an outreach theatre and making a mere pittance in actual dollars (though I got loads of experience and tremendous job satisfaction). I had a roommate who was taking art classes as a highly regarded art institute affiliated with a major gallery and she talked about her figure drawing classes. Sometime in those conversations, it dawned on me that I could be a figure model since I was broke, low on modesty, and high on trust for artists in that kind of an environment.  I was accepted as a model right as soon as I applied and soon landed a weekly assignment working for a teacher who taught classical drawing. She liked to have two models for her three-house class and each of us worked half the class but got paid for the whole thing. It was easy, easy money, the students were mainly adults and very respectful, and, apart from occasionally being cold, the process was pleasant. It actually did wonders for my body image because it was always extraordinary to see their work after I was done posing. It was never recognizable as me but the lines and shadows that they put together were always lovely and the idea that something beautiful was inspired by my body was empowering.

But that was many years, and many stretch marks, ago. And while I’m still not too freaked out by changing in a communal locker room, I don’t put my naked self , or any portion thereof, on display all that often.  Belly tops? Short shorts? Bikinis? Nope. Not for this girl.

Which is why it was totally random for me to suddenly think of doing a boudoir photo session as a surprise birthday gift for my husband. I initially liked the idea but decided to run it by a  friend before comitting to it. I asked Christina, who I work with, what she thought of the idea.  Christina has a ton of credibility with me because she’s an amazing photographer in her own right, she has a husband, and she went to Ohio State.  That’s why when she didn’t even hesitate in saying it was a great idea, I got on the horn to a photographer  I know who does boudoir shoots (Christina is a travel photographer, which is the only reason I didn’t ask her).

Enter the Dummy. Don’t look at me like that. I can call my photographer the Dummy because that’s what she calls herself.  It’s short for Dumb Mom and she’s the wickedly sharp mind behind Parenting By Dummies and the creative force of thenagain photography. She’s also a DC area blogger who makes me laugh at parties.  I knew bringing her in to do this shoot would be fun, relaxed, and I wasn’t going to find pictures of me in my undies on SkankyMomsRUs.

Preparations were fierce. I abandoned plans to lose weight before the shoot and instead focused on finding lingerie that would make my boobs look higher up on my chest and not cut into my hip fat. I even bought some of those inserts for your bra that act like implants without the pain, expense, and inconvenience of surgery. And hello? My boobs look hot when I wear those and they were only about $30! Totally worth it! I managed to take a day off without alerting the Great Guy I Married that something was afoot and shoved him out the door with enough time before Dumb Mom arrived to run to Target and purchase some last minute thongs for the shoot. I also bought a donut which probably didn’t do me any favors but chilled me out.

I spent about an hour blowing my hair out and slathering on make-up and by the time I answered the door for Dumb Mom, I looked like Suburban Mom Barbie, with a full-on hooker head and capris and a t-shirt on my body. The Dummy came with suitcases full of goodies like leopard print throws and long strings of beads and lots of fancy looking cameras and lighting reflectors.  She also brought low-key humor and a totally non-judgmental attitude.  She didn’t blink at my messy house, pale skin, or lumpy butt, and in fact, took to Twitter later saying my butt was hot. I should have paid her extra for that. We spent the next couple of hours chatting like girlfriends as she snapped shots of me at my make-up table, on my bed, on the chaise in my living room, and sitting on a stool. I switched outfits three or four times and wore everything from a pink corset to a bra and thong under my husband’s favorite baseball jersey.

And it was so fun!

I haven’t been in front of a camera that formally since I last got headshots done way back in the 90’s.  Posing as a hot, 20-something with ideal skin elasticity is a different story from posing as a late-30-something mom with a c-section scar and thigh dimples but the basics of moving my body came back to me.  All those hours in the spotlight and in an art classroom and in dance and acting classes are still there and I somewhere under my middle-age insecurities about how I look are the strong bones of decent body image that I gained from knowing that my body does great things even if it doesn’t always look like a centerfold.

But the pictures? Make me look like a centerfold.

I don’t know what kind of editing software Dumb Mom has, maybe some kind of special package called Give-A-Mom-A-Waist. Or, more likely, she’s a genius who knows how to take flattering shots. Either way, I’ll take it.  And so will my husband who LOVED his gift when he got it this weekend.

Now you’re asking “Where are the goods, woman?”. They’re on the thenagain photography blog. You can see them there.  But if you’re my mother-in-law, dad or boss, please don’t.  Please?

The upshot of this whole thing is that risks are there for the taking. And in this case, at least, the payoff was worth it. I’m glad I did it. And so is my husband.

I received a discount on photo services from thenagain photography in return for advertising and a mention in this post. All opinions are entirely my own and honest as can be.