Don't Forget to Laugh at Yourself
"Back in my day, people took photos that had other people in them." -Unknown
The other day, we had an appointment for a photographer to take pictures for a local newspaper's written piece. I knew on Friday that Monday would be picture day. I stressed about it the whole weekend. You see, I don't enjoy having my picture taken. First, there is the whole letting my hair grow in thing...that has me feeling self-conscious. I made the comment that I feel like my head is misshapen, and now all my darling husband does is look at me, giggle, and say, "Now that you pointed it out, I just can't stop seeing it!" He has gotten weeks of mileage out of this one comment. I am happy he finds himself so entertaining...and I will leave it at that. Secondly, I put on six pounds the month of December. That is larger than a bag of sugar. That is the equivalent of a normal-sized baby. That is a lot of padding created by all those wonderful Christmas cookies I made with The Bean and GramBarb. Jordan's new favorite saying when she is getting ready for the day is, "Find me leggings or sweats, please. Pants with buttons are the enemy!" It would be funny if she weren't referring to what I said about my own wardrobe. Lastly, I feel like I have aged drastically in the past two years. Every line, every wrinkle, every furrow is poured over, criticized, and magnified by me. Eric tells me my lines are laugh lines and it is just proof he makes me happy...insert eye roll. Jordan is kind enough to point out that I "don't have any crow's tails around my eyes unless I smile." I asked her if she meant crow's feet, and she replied, "No, I'm pretty sure they refer to wrinkles as the crow's butt. I mean, it only makes sense, mommy. You say wrinkles stink." Thank you for the logic, my bean. Dear reader, do you see what I am up against?
Sunday night, I set out my outfit. It was a red sweater because I like red. I chose jeans...pants with buttons even if they are the enemy. I also pulled out my super-duper, full-body, sucker-inner. When I laid out my Spanx, Eric said, "Just put that away. All you are going to do is walk around looking constipated, complain about having gas, and be mean to me because your knickers are too tight." I can think of many other reasons to be mean to him without said knickers squeezing my insides like a python. He was given the death glare, and that stopped his incessant opinion sharing. When The Bean watched me dance, wriggle, and squeeze my now six-pound heavier self into my "shapewear," she said, "You know you're just going to be grumpy, have gas, and get more annoyed with daddy, right?" Sigh...it is an uphill battle I fight almost daily. Once into my slenderizing shapewear and chosen outfit, I was sadly disappointed that the six pounds of fudge and cookies didn't magically disappear. It was just rearranged in a smoother outline. Sigh...
I did the best I could with what I have in the hair department. I actually used product and a blow dryer. I felt like my misshapen head was not so obvious. I then moved on to my make-up. Generally, I do not wear a ton of make-up. However, with the special occasion of a photo op, I broke out the full-blown war paint. I shaped and darkened my brows. I used a brush and a blender on my foundation. I even used primer to fill in my "crow's tails." I outlined my lips, blended the color and finished with a light gloss. No detail was overlooked, no effort was spared. Satisfied I would look presentable, I went on to ready my bean. She showered, brushed her teeth, donned deodorant and a cute coordinating outfit...not too matchy-matchy...and styled her hair in space buns. We were ready for our in-print debut.
The photographer arrived promptly on time, was the picture of professionalism, showed interest in the soap, and asked to see the goats. When she arrived, The Bibbed Wonder, who had not put an ounce of extra effort into his appearance, was making moisturizer. He was wearing his normal bibbed attire, a black beanie, a mask, and gloves. The photographer asked if she could take a few shots of him in action. Of course, The Bibbed Wonder attributes her interest to his rugged good looks...again, insert eye roll. She went on to take pictures of the soap, the moisturizer, and the rack. She then asked to see the goats. Of course, we obliged. The girls, never ones to miss a treat or a photo op, hammed it up for her. She got some amazing shots of the girls, the babies, and of course, Eric's prize pigs. I think she did a great job, and the photos will complement the article.
However, guess who is not in a single picture? Yep, it's me. Not a single shot of my preened, spanxed, gas suffering self. Nary a hair on my carefully coiffed, misshapen head made it in a single photo—all that priming, primping, and pressing for naught. Sigh, I could have skipped the shower, the make-up, and stayed in sweats...which are not the enemy. Such is life. Although my self inflicted pressure was for nothing, I am grateful and appreciative for the interest in our little company and what we are doing. The truth is, the girls are the real stars of the show. None of this would be possible without them. Again with the honesty, I would much rather look at pictures of my beautiful goats than cringe at the sight of my own image. I believe, dear reader, you feel the same.
As always, dear reader, stay safe, stay smart, don't forget to laugh at yourself, and wash those hands well.