When I was a teen I desperately wanted to be a model. Why? I haven’t a clue because, when photographed, I was the queen of the frozen smile, I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hands crowd. I was not deterred by that small problem, however, and I used to longingly study those ads in the back of Seventeen magazine. “Be a model or look just like one.” Finally one day, disregarding all my mother’s warnings about never sending for anything out of a comic book or a teen magazine, I clipped the little add, filled in the information and stuck it in the mail. About two weeks later, I got a call. From the modeling school. Scared the heck out of me. The caller, aka the salesman, wanted to know if I had a whole bunch of money to pay for modeling school. Money? Pay? I didn’t want to pay money. I wanted to be a model or look just like one. For free. Talk about innocence lost.
I eventually got the salesman to leave me alone and my mother never found out that I was being “recruited” by a modeling school. And when photographed, I continued to freeze and my hands continued to become gigantic clumsy things that I couldn’t control, until finally, around the time I started college, I had to face the truth—I was never meant to be a model. In fact, I was darned glad not to be a model.
|Note how expression problem has been cleverly solved by photographer.|
Fast forward many frozen-smile decades. My husband decides to take up photography as his hobby. The kids are gone. He doesn’t like to photograph animals, because we have so many it would be easy to do that. He doesn’t like landscapes, because we live in a pristine desert environment with spectacular mountains and sunsets. No. He likes to photograph people. Uh, person. Guess who?
I’m such a bad subject. I can’t give another expression, as he often requests. I only have two that don’t look like Popeye—happy and blue steel. When my photographer is demanding that I relax, I tend to lean toward blue steel. Eventually, though, after a couple years of being a subject (a word I prefer to model) I have learned to relax. Kind of. I still have only two expressions, but sometimes my husband can Photoshop it so it looks like I have a third. I'm happy to report though, that my hands are finally under control. I've found pockets to be a godsend.
Did any of you have dreams that, looking back, you can see you were not suited for? Such as the potential vet student who hated the sight of blood? (Uh, me again.) I'd love to hear that there are others out there like myself...hint, hint. I'll give a Kindle download of any Superromance or a copy of one of my backlist to a randomly chosen respondent.