An Immodest Proposal
I was watching a movie when I saw a notification light up my phone. I'm not much of a phone watcher, especially these days, so I'm not sure why I picked it up.
The preview read: "Hey girlie, I know that you signed the contract that said I could use..."
It was from a photographer I'd used for a few personal and professional projects. On top of not being one to salivate at any prompt of my phone like some Pavlovian dog, I'll admit that I rarely want to open message immediately. I'd rather take a bit to peruse and reply. However, that snippet gave me a sense of foreboding. I stopped to read the message in its entirety.
"Hey girlie, I know that you signed the contract that I could use your boudoir pics, but before I post it to my page, I wanted to make double sure you were okay with this since it does show your face."
It was last year and I was still fresh out of a marriage where I'd lost all sense of self. I'd also spent an unfortunate amount of my marriage feeling dowdy and unattractive. But it was as if once the ring was off, even though no physical change had occurred, I was a red-hot pistol once again. I wanted to always remember what beautiful girl I was, even a few years shy of forty. I jumped at the change for this photographer to do a boudoir session, and I was up for anything.
If this sounds a little "the lady doth protest too much," it's not. I can't recall a time when I felt a sense of modesty. Whether nude beaches, a revealing outfit, or just doffing my clothes for a silly streaking, nudity wasn't much of a concern. Now, I do believe that most people are aware of their flaws. I knew I had flaws, but neither did I feel I had much to be ashamed of. Nudity felt comfortable, preferable even sometimes.
The proofs from my boudoir shoot came off well. Strangely, most of the photos I chose for my package were of elaborate lingerie and shoes. While I'd done various stages of undress, I'd only chosen a few nudes. I enjoyed the whole glam doll aspect of it. I was actually a little cocky about it, so that when my photographer asked if she could ever use any of my photos for her own marketing, I happily signed off. Because once a nudist, always a nudist, right?
Except what happens when I have a head injury and aren't really sure how the "new" me feels about that? Had this happened even a month sooner, I might have collapsed in a fit and called her sobbing. But now? Same girl, same body, but same mind?
Not in the beginning, absolutely not. During periods of almost literal amnesia, I'd ponder my shoes and clothes in my closet. These were brief periods when I knew intellectually that these were my things, but instead I'd look and wonder who the hell this girl was. I'd catch myself thinking things like, "Will I learn to love these things?" I'd meant that I supposed I should just get on with it and assume this stranger's identity. Other times I understood who I was and almost who I had been, but not really fathom why. I'd drive past a nude hot springs I'd once frequented and wonder why I'd ever enjoyed it. I still held fast to the notion that I was a fine specimen, but that maybe that was best left private. I was suddenly virtuously modest.
Summer turned into fall and into winter. Some of my old personality came back and I was aware of it; some had or will not and I'm equally aware; and some had, had not or will not without any awareness.
Reading that message and then seeing a screenshot of her website with my photo predominant, I actually laughed at what a funny situation this seemed. One can plan for many a thing; this was not one of them. What did I think now? I felt like I was making a decision for someone else. I remembered, of course, that it was, indeed, a good photo. Growing up in the digital age and knowing that everything lasts forever, I'd felt okay at the time that these photos could follow me always. In fact, I'd pictured them in the hands of my worst enemy and not felt any differently. But what I remembered next sealed the deal. I remembered showing a friend those photos and saying, "Please chose one of these for my obituary, no matter how old I am when I die. See just how much they'll get away with letting you show of me."
So I decided on behalf of me. I'm alive, yes, but it's how the old me wanted to be remembered posthumously. I gave the photographer the official go-ahead. And it suddenly felt so freeing, I could have taken off my clothes and gone streaking down the neighborhood with glee.
Modesty is dead.
The preview read: "Hey girlie, I know that you signed the contract that said I could use..."
It was from a photographer I'd used for a few personal and professional projects. On top of not being one to salivate at any prompt of my phone like some Pavlovian dog, I'll admit that I rarely want to open message immediately. I'd rather take a bit to peruse and reply. However, that snippet gave me a sense of foreboding. I stopped to read the message in its entirety.
"Hey girlie, I know that you signed the contract that I could use your boudoir pics, but before I post it to my page, I wanted to make double sure you were okay with this since it does show your face."
It was last year and I was still fresh out of a marriage where I'd lost all sense of self. I'd also spent an unfortunate amount of my marriage feeling dowdy and unattractive. But it was as if once the ring was off, even though no physical change had occurred, I was a red-hot pistol once again. I wanted to always remember what beautiful girl I was, even a few years shy of forty. I jumped at the change for this photographer to do a boudoir session, and I was up for anything.
If this sounds a little "the lady doth protest too much," it's not. I can't recall a time when I felt a sense of modesty. Whether nude beaches, a revealing outfit, or just doffing my clothes for a silly streaking, nudity wasn't much of a concern. Now, I do believe that most people are aware of their flaws. I knew I had flaws, but neither did I feel I had much to be ashamed of. Nudity felt comfortable, preferable even sometimes.
The proofs from my boudoir shoot came off well. Strangely, most of the photos I chose for my package were of elaborate lingerie and shoes. While I'd done various stages of undress, I'd only chosen a few nudes. I enjoyed the whole glam doll aspect of it. I was actually a little cocky about it, so that when my photographer asked if she could ever use any of my photos for her own marketing, I happily signed off. Because once a nudist, always a nudist, right?
Except what happens when I have a head injury and aren't really sure how the "new" me feels about that? Had this happened even a month sooner, I might have collapsed in a fit and called her sobbing. But now? Same girl, same body, but same mind?
Not in the beginning, absolutely not. During periods of almost literal amnesia, I'd ponder my shoes and clothes in my closet. These were brief periods when I knew intellectually that these were my things, but instead I'd look and wonder who the hell this girl was. I'd catch myself thinking things like, "Will I learn to love these things?" I'd meant that I supposed I should just get on with it and assume this stranger's identity. Other times I understood who I was and almost who I had been, but not really fathom why. I'd drive past a nude hot springs I'd once frequented and wonder why I'd ever enjoyed it. I still held fast to the notion that I was a fine specimen, but that maybe that was best left private. I was suddenly virtuously modest.
Summer turned into fall and into winter. Some of my old personality came back and I was aware of it; some had or will not and I'm equally aware; and some had, had not or will not without any awareness.
Reading that message and then seeing a screenshot of her website with my photo predominant, I actually laughed at what a funny situation this seemed. One can plan for many a thing; this was not one of them. What did I think now? I felt like I was making a decision for someone else. I remembered, of course, that it was, indeed, a good photo. Growing up in the digital age and knowing that everything lasts forever, I'd felt okay at the time that these photos could follow me always. In fact, I'd pictured them in the hands of my worst enemy and not felt any differently. But what I remembered next sealed the deal. I remembered showing a friend those photos and saying, "Please chose one of these for my obituary, no matter how old I am when I die. See just how much they'll get away with letting you show of me."
So I decided on behalf of me. I'm alive, yes, but it's how the old me wanted to be remembered posthumously. I gave the photographer the official go-ahead. And it suddenly felt so freeing, I could have taken off my clothes and gone streaking down the neighborhood with glee.
Modesty is dead.
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