I am a simple girl. I am not big on accessories. I don’t take a lot of time to primp most mornings and more often than not you’ll find me in yoga pants, T-shirt, and a sports bra. This isn’t an excuse as much as an explanation. As a personal trainer and yoga teacher, there doesn’t seem much point in applying makeup in the morning or doing more than pulling my hair into a ponytail. Otherwise, I end up with mascara halfway down my face and some amount of whiplash from trying to toss my hair out of my face, repeatedly.
That’s not a good look either. I am, clearly, out of practice when it comes to showing up looking “girly” in the realm of social norms.
That’s a lot of exposition to set the stage for my latest experience.
I needed to have professional photos taken for an upcoming project and we can take a moment to provide space for the panic attack I needed and had.
I am not comfortable in that setting. While I am fine with a selfie or a quick group shot, a professional shoot seems more important and should be because it’s expensive. It’s also stress-inducing and it triggers all my insecurities.
I was already crazy in my head without any assistance and then I received some helpful advice from my photographer, which put me over the edge. She listed some ideas for what to wear, and that was appreciated, but soon into reading the list I was feeling more and more inadequate.
She instructed me to bring multiple shirts. All my shirts have some sort of dry-fit or wicking properties. That seemed wrong.
She encouraged bringing bracelets, necklaces, or scarves. I have a Garmin GPS and a step counter, are those like bracelets? And the only scarf I own is for snow not fashion.
Another suggestion was to bring a prop that speaks to your personality. Hmm, I don’t think she was thinking a shot of tequila that I might need to get through this or a bicycle to ride as far away from this hour of pain as possible.
By the time the day of my photo shoot arrived I was nearly ready to bail out even though that wasn’t an option. I finally decided on a few shirts and in my preparation I went in search of a device I don’t often use — the iron.
After locating the ironing board I assumed the iron would be close by. I assumed wrong. I searched around for a bit and then texted my husband:
Do you know where the iron is?
His response: I don’t take iron.
Further proof that I am not girly, all that classy, and hardly ever crisply pressed.
I had to follow up by saying: Iron as in getting wrinkles out of a shirt
With that, I was able to get the 411 on the iron and show up to the shoot with all my clothes well ironed.
I am not sure anything else, including me, was in good order but my clothes looked nice on the hanger. Sometimes the positive is a very small, little nugget and you have to be OK with that. When you are a simple girl trying to visit the Barbie World it can require you to dig deep for the sunshine point.
Sunshine & Sarcasm,
Lowi & G