NOT A MODEL-JUST PART OF THE STORY

I ran across an essay today and I almost fell apart. It highlighted a truth I knew subconsciously, but had trouble admitting to for along time. I am someone who hates being photographed, and after the end of my marriage, I realized I was in very few of the photographs we took; maybe 5 over an 8 year period. Keep in mind we traveled to Alaska, Kenya, Paris, London, Ireland, Jamaica, Venezuela, etc. so at the very least there should have been some photos of me in those places. I had long attributed the lack of photographs of myself to my absolute hatred of being photographed. But then I ran out of excuses, over that period of time I noticed that somehow, my friends and family had photographs of me. They captured me when I wasn't looking or when I was laughing so hard, I just couldn't stop them from taking pics.

Somehow, the people who wanted me to be a part of their lives found a visual way of making room for me, even against my objections. A few weeks ago a new friend asked me to pose for a photograph in Arlington, VA near one of the monuments. He wanted a photo of both me and the monument. I asked him why he would want one with me since it was better just getting a pic of the monument. He said- what kind of question is that? I knew what kind of question that was, it was the kind of question that comes from someone who expects to be left out. I begrudgingly posed for the pic. thankful that someone wants me to be a part of their story.

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INTRODUCTION

How or where do I start? Well, more than a year ago I set up this space with the idea that I would blog my little heart out, but here I am now just barely starting off. You should know that I have no idea what I am doing and that I am finally doing this because, well, I don't know that either. I am a professional in my early 30's living in Central, PA. It is finally dawning on me that the job I am doing now is probably the job I will be doing for the rest of my life...great for "stability", but terrible for having something to look forward to. Don't get me wrong, I love my job, I help people all the time and my co-workers are wonderful, but it's almost like a courtship, I wish my profession would "court me" a little more, that it ought to worry that one day I wouldn't be here anymore and therefore should be nicer and more spontaneous with me. Does that sound odd? Probably, but that is how I feel...maybe it's a professional 7 year itch thing...

THOUGHTS ON MOTHERS, FASHION AND BODY IMAGE

It wasn't until I was 13 years old that I learned I was fat. That was the year I moved to the United States and began to have a difficult time finding clothes that fit appropriately. I never really thought about that change until much later when I would look back on childhood photos and was surprised by how well my clothes fit, and how well-dressed I mostly was. As someone who is very fashionably challenged, I was surprised that at some point in time, I knew how to dress well...and I seemed to have lost the skill once I had many clothing options. When did I lose that skill? I began to explore that phenomena and quickly came to an odd realization. In the U.S. I clearly always had more clothing options that I ever did in Venezuela. Ready-made clothes in the U.S. were affordable so everyone could buy them. That was the key, in Venezuela, ready-made clothes were very expensive, so not too many people purchased them. In fact, I don't remember my mom buying anything ready-mad...

MOTHERHOOD: A SITE OF VICIOUS NEGOTIATION

I woke up this morning to a baby puking on me while smiling unapologetically. For the first time her lack of inhibition worried me. This Mother's Day, I thought I'd be reflecting on being a mother for the first time and jot down some mushy words, instead, I think back to the day I walked in on my mom having greater aspirations for my daughter than she did for me. My dad raised me to thrive in the world I deserved, my mom raised me to survive in the world I was born into. Needles to say, my dad's parenting was liberating and empowering, my mom's was stifling and suffocating, so of the two parents I always rebelled against HER. She would often say that I was created fighting her given how difficult her pregnancy was with me. She was right, my earliest memories with my mom are of our arguments. We fought like the swords of two warriors: I was driven by a desire to be free and capable, her by fear that I might suffer consequences the patriarchy metes out to misbehaving wo...

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