Wifes Photo Shoot

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I Did a Sexy Photo Shoot to Impress My Husband
This is not the story I hoped to write.
Hell, it’s not even the catchy “I did this, but guess what, it didn’t turn out how I expected!” story I thought I might end up writing.
It’s not going to be one of those “I did a thing and it totally changed my life and now I feel great about myself” stories either.
It’s not the story I wanted, but I suppose it’s the story I needed.
I’ve been feeling desperate lately, the sort of deep dark angst that can only come with middle age, as you feel yourself slipping away, becoming more and more invisible, even to the person who’s supposed to love you.
Fascinating things can stem from desperation. In my case, it’s been a mini mid-life crisis of a generally positive nature, as I’ve reached out of my comfort zone to experience things I never thought I’d attempt. I’ve tried pole dancing and burlesque. I’m in therapy, trying to regain my confidence after it was shattered by my eating disorder.
And this past Saturday, I checked something off my bucket list. I did a boudoir photo shoot.
Ok, boudoir might be a stretch — no nudity, not even any real skin (I have a day job and the last thing I need is smutty pictures floating around the Interwebs), but there were fishnets and five-inch heels and a short negligee and a sexy sheer ankle-length robe with faux fur trim. And most importantly, me in front of a camera wearing those things for a professional photographer.
I kept telling myself I was doing this for ME, and while that’s partially true, it’s certainly not the whole story.
I’ve been frantically wanting to feel sexy again, to see that glint in my husband’s eye, and I thought maybe I could MAKE him see me that way again, through the lens of a photographer’s camera.
I didn’t tell him about the shoot because I wanted to surprise him, but also because I was afraid if I told him what I was about to do, it would make it glaringly real, and then I’d panic.
It’s the same reason I tend to handle scary doctor’s appointments better on my own. If someone’s there to offer support, I melt into my anxiety and break down. Alone, I’m strong and stoic.
Here’s the deal — I hate having my picture taken. I’ve gained a lot of weight over the past ten years. I tend to make weird faces, and my eating disorder comes with a hefty dose of body dysmorphia. Looking at photos of myself can make me feel physically ill.
But this photo session was happening at my extremely body-positive dance studio, so if I wanted to do something like this, it was the best possible scenario.
The best possible scenario, that is, until I woke up Saturday morning wishing I hadn’t signed on at all. What if I froze? What if I looked like an idiot? I imagined the photographer throwing up his hands, exclaiming: “Dios Mio, I cannot do anything with THIS!”
Fortunately, hair and makeup calmed me down a bit. My hair stylist is also a friend, and I always look forward to chatting with her. She gave me fun, vampy curls to compliment the Hollywood film noir vibe of my outfit.
The makeup artist at the MAC store, a funky chick with lime-green hair, was phenomenal. She understood my vision and took it up a few notches, with burgundy hues for my eyes, perfect black liner, a cut crease to give my normally rounded eyes a slightly different shape, faux lashes to die for, and blush that made my skin glow.
I walked out the door feeling like a million bucks. I knew I could handle the shoot because I had transformed into someone else.
One thing I learned? With dramatic makeup, you’ll turn heads. And if you’re a short, dumpy 47-year-old who’s no longer accustomed to that sort of thing, it’ll surprise you, and you might not be sure whether you like it or not. I had no fewer than five strangers (male and female) compliment my makeup on my way to the car.
Once I arrived at the fifth-floor walk-up studio, I changed into my outfit and awkwardly teetered (five-inch heels, remember) across the hardwood floor to the photography space. It was surreal, to say the least. The room was dark except for the multi-colored photography lights and the glow from the laptop we’d use later to select my proofs.
My dance instructor is also the creative director for her boyfriend’s photography studio, and they both did a phenomenal job of putting me at ease. When they asked what music I’d like to hear, I immediately requested Sisters of Mercy, knowing it would soothe my aging Goth girl heart.
At first, it was difficult to quiet the part of my brain that always insists on regaling me with a litany of my flaws: double chin, flabby everything, crooked teeth, chubby ankles, slightly lazy right eye, bizarre expressions. Other people can do sultry…I end up looking like I’m about to vomit.
Even the photographer saying “beautiful!” didn’t help initially. I’ve had photographers say that in the past and there I am later, staring at yet another picture of me with that stupid little smile on my face, double chin showing in all its glory.
Also, (thanks perimenopause!) I tend to have hot flashes when I get nervous. So I started to sweat under all the lights, and then I panicked about that. Finally, they took pity and turned a fan on me, which helped immensely.
A few minutes in, I started to relax. I talked myself down. I melted into the moment — there I was, my time to shine, to have this experience I’d been wanting for years. I was courageous! I was doing it. I was even having fun!
And my husband would surely love the photos.
He’d see me as a sexual being again.
The worst part of the whole scenario was looking at the proofs. I felt anxious, unnerved, on the verge of tears, but fortunately, my dance instructor (who knows about my eating disorder) was there to talk me down.
In all, there were 112 proofs to review. I knew logically that all of them couldn’t be good — that’s why photographers take so many shots. But it was difficult for me to come face to face with the ones where I looked awkward, where my thighs looked saggy as I was doing a squat with my back against the pole, where I had that “about to puke” expression.
As we kept flipping, though, I started to see a few I liked. I mean, REALLY liked. There were so many good ones in the bunch, actually, that it was difficult to pinpoint the ones I wanted. It gives me chills just thinking about it, because I’m not accustomed to having that reaction to photos of myself.
Usually, they just make me want to break down and sob.
After the shoot, I changed back into my street clothes and headed home. I knew my husband’s brother was coming over for a game night, and while that wasn’t quite what I had in mind following my time in front of the camera, I couldn’t blame my husband since I hadn’t told him what I was doing!
I’d seen the ideal evening unfold in my imagination, though — I’d come home looking amazing, my husband would TELL me I looked amazing (not generally his strong suit), we’d flirt, and probably fool around.
The way the evening actually unfolded was that my husband made a snarky comment about my makeup, my brother-in-law (who has never in the entire time I’ve known him complimented my appearance) told me I looked amazing, and the three of us played board games until 2 a.m.
“I wanted him to be intrigued, impressed, maybe even turned on. But he seemed only mildly interested.”
I was hurt, understandably so, but not surprised. The story of my relationship with my husband has often been one of me feeling insufficient and him not doing much to counteract my perspective.
Because I was hurt, I broke my own rule and told him about the shoot. So much for the surprise, but I wanted to incite a reaction. I wanted him to be intrigued, impressed, maybe even turned on. But he seemed only mildly interested.
And that was the moment I realized it wasn’t me, it was him. His chronic anxiety blinds him to me sometimes, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it, other than support him and encourage him to get help.
I love my husband, he loves me, and we’ll be ok. Relationships ebb and flow over time, and we’ve been together for more than half my life. We’re committed to each other, and I trust in that.
We’re both willing to put in the work — it’s just a time of transition, and we’ve been through those before.
In the end, it wasn’t his reaction I needed to care about anyway. It was mine.
When everything else was stripped away, all that was left in my memory was an immense sense of pride and accomplishment. I stared the beast in the eye and I conquered it.
Maybe I’ll even show them to my husband.
MPP friends writing about life, love, and everything else in between together.
MPP friends writing about life, love, and everything else in between together.
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Paula's session was a gift from her husband after he heard her saying how she would love to do a Gok Wan style 'How to Look Good Naked' photo shoot. Be careful what you wish for!

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