Time for a new profile picture. The thumbnail representation of persona, who I want you to believe I am and using only the best angles and lighting. What’s my motivation? Do I go tits again (self love to those who’ve asked to see more), or Tina-Fey-glasses-take-me-serious-as-an-essayist pose? Perhaps Shirley Manson-Garabagesque.
I’m leaning towards risqué. Between firemen, dick chat and erotic dreams, I’m bringing frisky back (with thanks to the pokey thyroid meds I railed so hard against). But there's that fine line between saucy and salacious. For a minute-and-half I’d posted a photo in a blog reflecting results of much hard work, the half-point on the “I Love Me More” health and fitness tour. It’s my favorite new picture; instead of sloping shoulders disappearing into fleshy arms, it shows squared, defined edges holding up a beautiful clavicle. Much cleavage, perky where needed and toned in the thighs. I have a waist, hips. But since I took the picture myself, reflected back in a mirror and wearing a vintage-looking black slip, it’s a bit Craigslist and I quickly pulled it.
Didn’t think it through to comments typed with one hand.
I’m sexy. It’s as odd a concept as suddenly sprouting a third thumb or waking up a foot taller. I have a way to go yet, and more work to do, but love and stroke my body at every stage, at every weight and as flab moves to lean. I finally get it. That I shop in the ladies department at Macy’s after a decade confined to Lane Bryant is perhaps the greatest thrill of all.
I have a long-time friend, a photographer. At 27, my heart shattered by rejection, he and I did a photo shoot together. Never comfortable in pictures up to that point, I needed to find me after not being seen by a man I thought I'd fallen in love with. It took a good many mimosas to calm strong shaking but I did it. I still recall dreading the first look through an eye scope at tiny squares filled with my image. I remember saying out loud, "These aren't bad. I look…good.” I cherish those photos now. I see a young girl in B&W and the first pecks to crack a thick shell of insecurity built on childhood taunts and never feeling pretty. I’m proud of her. It may be time to capture her again.
That’s not my face now.