Have I told you about why my blog is called better in real life? I’m sure I have at some point. Maybe even on this post (but I’m too lazy to go back and read it right now… I’m head-achy and grumpy that I have to go to work in the morning). Well, if I haven’t here’s the breakdown:
I feel like I look bomb dot com in my head. Not all of the time, but most of the time I think I’m doing pretty good. I am also, simultaneously, incredibly hard on myself. I struggle with self image, self hate, with an insatiable need to be better, more improved. But, in general, I think I leave the house looking pretty fly. But! I don’t think this translates to photos. It never has translated to photos. I think I’m rockin’ it, and then I see a picture and part of me is crushed. The shirt isn’t falling correctly, my hair is weirdly poofy on one side, I have a double chin, my shoulders are slouched, my pants are cutting in too tight, and how did I ever think those shoes were “edgy”?? But when I look in the mirror, or catch a reflection from a store window I still think I’m doing ok. So, it turns out, I must just be better in real life. And this blog is betting that you probably are too. Or maybe you’re worse… but definitely more honest.
This brings me to this weekend. This weekend the weather exploded into awesomeness. It was 85 degrees in my neighborhood on Saturday. Clear blue skies, butterflies, birds singing, all the windows open, heaven on earth, the whole bit. And of course, my body hasn’t seen the light of day since our honeymoon over 9 months ago. So ya know… I was freaking Edward up in here. But the sun was amazing and I didn’t really care – except I did.
I have always been anxious and uncomfortable with how white I am. It’s embarrassing to have people tell you you glow, or have boys tell you they won’t date you because you’re too white (yes, in early high school this happened), or be the one constantly worrying about applying sunscreen religiously so I don’t burst into flames. And also – I hate shorts. I hate them. But sometimes shorts are necessary for outdoor activities that require movement and possible sweating. I’ve reconciled this fact. But I don’t have to like it.
Ok, I’ve gone slightly off topic. The weekend’s weather was AMAZING. And I wanted to go explore a pretty sweet park that was near-ish the airport so we could watch the planes land and play frisbee. Also on this day I felt ridiculously bloated. I hate that feeling, and I hate shorts, and I hate being so effing white. Here is a cute photo of me before we left the house:
Here is something else I need to admit to: We haven’t been working out as regularly as I had been or want to be. The last month has been one event after another and I pretty much only had time to catch a flight, come home, go to work, come home, and sometimes sleep. So, on Saturday I was bloated, white, in shorts, and blessed with an internal monologue telling me that I wouldn’t feel so bloated if I had worked out more the week before, hadn’t had pizza the night before, and were just a better, more disciplined person overall. Because, duh, I’m lazy and disappointing. (Yay monologue!)
The park was perfect. It was hot out, I was playing catch and throwing some sweet throws and catching some sweet catches. Kamel and I were running around outside and really could have stayed there playing all day. It was our first weekend together at home in a month or more and it was glorious!
Until Kamel wanted to take a cool picture of me throwing the disc for Instagram. It may seem because of this blog that I want to document my whole life, but it’s not really true. I married a photographer so I often have to say, “No, please don’t photograph this.” Sometimes I just want to enjoy the moment and having photos of it takes me out of the fun. Not only does it mean I need to be aware of being “publicly presentable” but it also kicks in my major self-awareness (self critique). I wish it didn’t, but it’s one of those human things that happen.
So, Kamel took several pictures… and this is one of them:
Here is what I see:
- gross whitey-whiterson skin
- a gut hanging over my shorts
- un-toned lumps of thighs
- there is something about my elbow that I hate
- I’m making a weird face
Here is what Kamel saw:
- his wife throwing a frisbee
- amazing legs
- olympic-like pose
- focus and determination
This picture ruined a portion of my day. And that is stupid. In my mind I was kind of a bad ass. I was playing in the sun, being athletic, not feeling out of shape at all, and I was having SO MUCH FUN. But when I saw this photo (and a few others that Kamel shot) I was immediately ashamed of myself, immediately angry that he had taken the photo at all, immediately wanted to go home.
And we did go home. And I cried. And that really sucks. And I wish that I didn’t have that reaction. So here it is, here is the photo that stopped frisbee play for a few hours. Here is me, thinking I’m totally awesome in that moment, and then a few moments later being crushed by a stupid cell phone photo. I’m trying really hard not to care. I recognize that caring so much is irrational and that this was a moment of motion and that I’m a real person and not an airbrushed model. And that, no matter what photos are out there I really am better in real life.