Photo: Sara McConnell
I?m sitting naked on a chair, tilting my head back to stare at the ceiling of the studio. The photographer asks for more ?arch? in my back, but any further and I?ll be arching right out of the chair. I forgot the music. I was supposed to bring a catchy playlist?songs to put me at ease while stripping down to my birthday suit. Instead, I listen to my own thoughts, asking myself whose bright idea it was to do a boudoir session.
I?ve always tried to model a healthy body image. That?s not to say I don?t have my fair share of body hang-ups?my sagging boobs, cottage-cheese ass cheeks and wrinkly belly, to name a few. I don?t discuss these things in front of my kids, and I try to make ?wellness? my goal instead of a specific weight. I eat everything in moderation, I try to do something physical every day, and I don?t own a scale. But in more private moments, I?ll admit to some full-throttle body hatred?or maybe I should say self-hatred. Under all that loathing over a sagging belly and thunder thighs is a whole lot of fear?fear that I will not be accepted, fear that I am unlovable, fear that I am not ?enough.? This self-criticism runs like a broken record through my head and, all too often, interferes with my marriage. Every time my husband looks at me with deep-hooded eyes, I want to run screaming from the room. Instead, I ask him to turn out the lights so that I don?t have to see myself. My loud-mouthed inner critic is a total mood killer.
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