Published on November 19, 2010
I live and am in LOVE with a photographer.
Believe me, this is not always an easy thing.
I’ve had to grow comfortable with having his lens capture all the moments of my being. I’ve been forced to make amends with bed head, crusty morning mouth, and that goopy stuff that gathers in the corner of my eyes late, late at night. Because he’s going to catch it–and stare for hours on his computer at it–at me.
And he’ll call me off the couch or out of the studio just to tell me how beautiful I am.
How beautiful I am.
And I can’t see it.
I see the flaws.
The circles under my eyes and the gap between my teeth.
I see the pouch around my waist and the flesh clinging to my hips.
But through his eyes he’s sees a masterpiece.
So like any typical red blooded female–I won’t let my honey have the last word.
I picked up my own camera and locked myself in the bathroom to just prove a point–so he could see what I see.
And as I looked into my eyes–I saw the woman I’ve always dreamed of being.
I stood there staring at her.
Wow, the woman I’ve always wanted to be.
She was looking back at me.
Now I get what all the fuss is about.
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