This picture makes me feel stupid, ashamed, then really angry. And yet, at the time, I felt as though it was something I "had to" do. I felt uncomfortable but I did not really voice my discomfort. It's clearly visible in my body language, my gaze is forced downwards, my arms outstretched... I feel sad for the girl in the picture.
I am really conflicted
about how my appearance affects other people's perceptions of me. It is so exhausting to have to constantly decide whether people are really absorbed in what I'm saying because I have a pleasing sort of look to me. I'm not gorgeous. But -- hell -- I'm 25, my tits are perky, and I don't have a third eye and a hunch back. I can clean up, and this is highly pleasing to me. But, I have to say that it spoils everything when, for instance, you want a newspaper article to be about your art ... and you're in more than one picture. Or when you really just want to talk about your art with another artist over coffee ... and they reach across the table and tell you how they regret getting married so young.
I don't want to have saggy tits or a hunch back ... even though it will eventually be the case. But I just ... really wish sometimes that I didn't have to deal with all of this shit. With help from my Other Dad, I'm learning to assert my boundaries much more carefully, "exuding" unavailability and slithering in a handshake where an inappropriate hug may have been attempted, not drinking at art-related functions, which are work functions, at least for me.
But this, my friends, is a double-edged sword.
I'm tall and smart and pretty and confident and ... so obviously I can't get a date. Not even a nip from some guppies here or there, let alone an actual fish. I'm not one to complain about these things. I go to bed and wake up happy every day. Seriously. But heck, how can I go from one extreme to another -- being objectified every time I walk out of the house to not being able to easily, sort of, date around, or whatever people do.
Ugh. I (,) object.