Fashion Is As Fashion Does
As I mentioned on my Forum: SooeySooeySooey - I entered the Globe Style Contest last week. Yes indeed. I sent in one head&shoulders shot and two head-to-toe shots of me, myself and I in three different outfits.
Phew!
Modelling is hard.
And I'm not being a Barbie here, either. Smiling and posing on command, when there's something at stake, is a lot like making a speech in front of a crowd except instead of my voice shaking, my smile shakes. Seriously. As soon as I knew my daughter (I enlisted her support since none of it was possible, otherwise - it all requiring digital photo uploading, elves, pixie dust - until facsimiles of me in Ottawa end up inside Globe computers in Toronto) was about to click - my smile veered into crazy lady territory and we had to do another take.
She had lots of cheap laughs, though - so it was way worth it to her to spend an hour taking pictures of her Mom instead of just, well, I dunno... what DO teenaged girls do when they aren't busy taking pictures of their Moms?
That's okay. Don't answer. And it's not like I couldn't cast my mind back to my own teenaged girl years and remember spending a lot of time laying around wishing I was anywhere but wherever my Mom was, asking me to do something or other for her, as if I didn't have a million and one better things to do.
Who knew having your picture taken could be so hard?
Except professional models, I guess.
And if I'd thought about it, I should have known how difficult it is to take a good picture when there's something at stake in taking a good picture. For a brief time (about 2 days), I had a promise of a bi-weekly spot in the Ottawa Citizen and so had my picture taken to top my 700-word humour column. It even made it into the newspaper over the next few pieces I had published - although bi-weekly turned into monthly and then monthly into a new editor who wasn't interested at all thank you very much and now "buh-bye" freelancer. So yeah, the pre-asshole editor sent a photographer over to my home to take my picture and, my-oh-my, one entire roll of film later, she had one decent shot she could use.
Maybe two. Three at the very outside.
It wasn't her fault. She was a professional. She clowned, she joked, she even went upstairs and brought my ex down so he could clown and joke behind her - in hopes of making me relax. But for some reason, I couldn't manage to keep my smile from wavering and my eyes from closing for longer than it takes to say, "Cheez" - the scariest word in the English language when you are having your picture taken for something that, well, matters to you.
In fact, as soon as I realized where the shoot was going - in the toilet - I could barely manage to smile at all. Which is kind of understandable since smiling for me is a bit of an engineering feat because I grew up hiding a missing front tooth which meant that, until I could get it fixed, I had one of those local yokelly gap-toothed smiles instead of one of those Lauren Huttony gap-toothed smiles. And even though I have the requisite number of teeth now, I've retained the habit of smiling like I'm hiding a shameful history of cousins marrying sisters, or somesuch.
(And because I didn't really trust the editor not to print one of the more hilarious takes - I instructed the photographer to under no circumstances give him any more than just that one photo to choose from for my head shot. I later realized that a crazy lady photo would have been much more suited to my column and may, in fact, have been the edge I needed to nudge out the political insider who DID land the bi-weekly spot I always felt but never could be absolutely sure was the one promised to me.)
Paranoia - thy name is freelancer.
Anyway, the same thing happened last week as I posed and fussed for my photo entries for the contest. I was so nervous, in fact, that I forgot my bling in one of the photos. Which, on further reflection, may be a good thing.
We'll have to wait and see. People often comment on my bling, but I'm not sure if its commenting-good or commenting-what the hell are you wearing, crazy lady?
Paranoia - thy name is crazy lady.
But the real reason I entered the contest was because it was there. And once I'd seized upon the idea of winning a trip to Toronto and a $5,000 shopping spree, well, how hard is it to send in 3 photos or yourself?
(See Above)
But to be honest, it wasn't until after I'd entered and sent in my photos that I gave any thought to the fashion part of the exercise - in terms of what is actually fashionable - as opposed to the outfits I wear because I look better in them than what is currently in fashion, no matter what is currently in fashion.
Sorry, but in spite of every fashionista's advice regarding what women in middle age should and should not wear, I am NEVER going back to high-rise jeans. It's low-rise 'til the walker years, so get ready to avert your gaze or stare in wonder, world. I don't give a rat's ass - and maybe I'll be sporting a rat's ass - what the critics say. Having nothing around my waist is all the fashion freedom I need, baby. After what seems like a lifetime of having to undo my pants/skirt to sit comfortably at my desk - I think we can all agree that I'm better off with a low-rise jean. I'm not a plumber, anyway, and as long as my chair has a closed back - who's to know any better while I comfortably digest my lunch.
So yeah, I'm wearing low-rise jeans in one photo and, well, my favourite dress in the other. And no - it's not a mini. I don't wear mini dresses. I never wore mini dresses. Only models and little girls should wear mini dresses. It is, in fact if not fashion, a knee length Chinese style dress except chocolate brown and in a stretch cotton/something blend. It's like a comfortable girdle shaped like a dress. It even hides panty lines. I wear it with short little wicked witch of the west boots in chocolate brown with little gold studs up the side and a skinny high heel that takes me to 5'8" or 5'9" - depending on how tall I really am. (I started lying when I was about 12 and haven't had myself accurately measured since then because I prefer 5'6" but am probably 5'5" and no longer feel the need for the truth. Truth is bad. No wonder ever came out ahead, height-wise, knowing the truth.)
Oh yes, and you'll be jealous and green with envy, both, to know that in my low-rise jeans photo, I'm wearing red cowboy boots. I forgot to say in my little entry blurb accompanying my photos that they belonged to Bob Dylan, but it's probably for the best since you never know who's got it in for Bob Dylan these days. Bob Dylan cowboy boots could be a vote getter, but they could just as easily be a vote loser. So yes. When in doubt, leave it out.
Which is actually a pretty chic little fashion tip I just noticed too late...
So send your good vibes to the Globe Style Contest. Mama needs new shoes.
