I hope this does not offend, but I will admit that I did not see modeling as much of an art. Photography is an art. Painting is an art. Dancing is an art. But modeling? For some reason, it was never the first to cross my mind. However, over the last couple of months, I had the opportunity to work with several wonderful photographers, and it was this that experience changed my perspective. Opened me up to a whole new world. A whole new skill. A whole new passion.
I’m constantly bewildered by fashion bloggers’ ability to constantly post new content. Of course “pic creds” always seem to go to boyfriends, best friends, siblings, moms. But I’m not gonna lie: the people in my life have a lot more to concern themselves with than my personal blog, and I prefer not distracting them from their daily tasks with my constant need to take pictures.
As a fashion blogger who’s just beginning to start and grow, I understand the importance of releasing a consistent stream of new content to Instagram. By releasing more content, you set yourself up with more opportunities for other users to find your account. However, not having people to take your pictures (or not wanting to ask people to take your pictures) can really slow down this release of new content, especially as a fashion blogger whose main content comes from outfit-of-the-days and other outfit pictures. One of the main reasons I put off starting a blog for so long was my fear that I would not be able to produce enough content.
However, I put on my big girl pants and told myself, “You are a strong independent woman and you don’t need NO ONE to take pictures for you!” And so I did it. Pretty successfully, if I say so myself. Though if you have any doubt on my level of success, below are some examples I took by myself. Judge as you please.
So, yeah. Here I am now. Using the hour breaks between classes to scream “Cheese!” at my phone sitting five feet away in the middle of campus surrounded by classmates and bikers and professors getting mildly annoyed with me. And if that sounds at all appealing to you, you should keep reading.
There are three things I realized from wearing a dress that was too short. One. I should really learn how to do laundry properly. Two. The majority of people are too embarrassed about seeing your underwear that they probably won’t tell you that they can see your underwear– an interesting, yet easily observable self-hindering phenomenon deserving of more investigation. And three. Even worse than victim-blaming is the unfortunate tendency reinforced by decades of societal conditioning for victims to feel the need to blame themselves. But let me explain.
Everyone has a type, right? That specific kind of person that they constantly date over and over again? My roommate had dated three different guys, all of whom were reserved and quiet and wore glasses. My friend seemed to only be interested in blondes. And my cousin had a weird fixation on dentists. And me? I always found myself being drawn to loud, obnoxious chatty types.
Now I’m all for self-awareness. I think there is a lot of importance in understanding yourself and understanding what you want. It gives you direction, drive, and ambition. But let’s be real here: I didn’t really know what I want. As a person who had never been in a relationship, I really shouldn’t have restricted myself to a specific genre of people. And yet, that’s what I did.
When I met him, I couldn’t help but be attracted. We were introduced by some mutual friends, and my initial impression was one of hope. He was sweet, silly, and very attractive. But he was reserved. Quiet and conservative. He wasn’t nearly as upfront as the other guys I’ve been interested in. Didn’t have the same swag or demeanor. Didn’t share that obnoxious level of confidence. He just wasn’t my “type”. Nope. Not at all. And yet, I found myself wanting to see him more, happy in his presence.
This happiness, however, just didn’t seem justifiable to me. How could I be happy with this guy who was so different from what I was used to? I admittedly spent way too much time thinking about our relationship. I compared him to other guys and obsessed over our “lack of compatibility”. He was way too quiet. He wasn’t flirty enough. His sense of humor just wasn’t right. It came to the point where I harassed my friends for advice that I never took anyway, where I demanded reassurance from them before every date, where I would second guess the legitimacy of my own happiness, where I was contemplating breaking things off with a guy who made me happy. All because he wasn’t my “type”.