The Diary of Queen Mothy |
The Rant of the Hour written @ 5:23 PM on September 13, 2003 I came home yesterday with the intensions of finishing my photography assignment. What happened was actually more complicated. After having shot two rolls of film at the creek in Keeyner Park, I discovered that my Canon AE-1 camera's shutter had broken (and I'm still not entirely sure about the condition of the film). I was extremely distraught because my deepest suspicions suggested that if it was reparable at all, it would be pricey. I went to Ritz's Camera at the mall and the guy behind the counter confirmed this, seeing as how the shutter lost a spring and various metal ball bearings were spilling out onto the counter. I went for a second opinion at Pete's PhotoWorld because I was in denial that I would have to buy a new camera-- and once more, it was "highly suggested" that, unless I forked over about $200 for a new shutter, I buy a new camera. Back to Ritz's. I met the same nice guy who sold me my tripod at the counter, and he pretty much understood what I was looking for. So-- because I was desperate to finish this assignment and because it had caught my eye before-- I bought a Nikon N65 model camera with a 50-90mm lens with some neat features. That, with the UV-protection lens, cost me $350. Suffice to say, it's been an expensive weekend. To take the stress off things, I went back to the park this afternoon and wandered. I took some wonderful black and white photos that will hopefully come out, but if they don't, I won't feel so sorry because it was more of an experimentation on the camera. This evening I'm going back to school at developing all three rolls of film. Hopefully I'll finish my proof prints assignment. *sigh* Looks like another long night in the studio/darkroom. What a way to spend your Saturday night. *** Somewhere in the span of all this, Christine took me underwear shopping. Talk about extreme awkwardness. There is nothing that makes me feel less of a woman-- or a person, for that matter-- than underwear shopping, and I'll be glad to tell you why: 1) my dainty, albeit faery-like, frame more closely resembles a man than a woman, 2) I passionately hate my body (the same lament all women bemoan, as it turns out), and 3) bottom line, I hate my vilitigo-stricken skin. I hope you are by this time noting the word hate. Therefore, the idea of choosing flashy bras and underwear is completely alien and downright frightening to me. In my world, underwear should be neither seen nor heard from. If you want pretty underwear, obviously you intend to show it and all the skin that goes with it. I don't buy Christine's excuse that "it makes me feel pretty." No. Sorry. That ain't doin' nuttin' for me. This phobia dates back to my childhood and early teen years when every summer was a traumatic experience: that is, I had to wear shorts, my skin would tan, and the sun would thereby highlight the vitiligo on my arms and legs. Followed by staring. Ah yes, the staring. Kids would stare, the adults young and old would stare. They would turn and whisper and point. And for a girl who was at that awkward stage in her life when she was neither an adult nor a child and when worth was measured in the eyes of her peers, the last thing you want to hear is that something is wrong with your appearance that can't be easily corrected by makeup. I was the most subconscious kid that ever walked the face of the planet from ages 4-18. And let me tell you, judging from my experiences this week (yet another long story), age 19 isn't shaping up too well either. When I was 14, I moved to Cincinnati and began high school (aka: began with a clean slate) and remedied the problem by wearing jeans from summer to fall to winter to spring to summer to fall... you get the idea. And I never wore short sleeves until it became unbearably hot. In recent years, I've been slowly coming out of my shell, but doing so still hurts. So this mentality that I was worth very little due to appearances that I had been cultivating since I was very young carried over into what cosmetics I wore (if any), the clothes on my back, the ways in which I grew up, and down to why I hesitate to procure a boyfriend. A pity party? Hell no; I'm more than satisfied to work with my lot in this life, and I've done well enough. A cry for help? Hardly; the troubles I had with my self-image have only made me stronger and it's probably a good way to curb vanity and my "superiority complex" (ahem... Kat), right? Whatever. The latter part of that sentence is bullshit. I'm simply stating why I detest underwear shopping, and subsequently dread bathing suit season, doctor visits, highly physical activities, swimming, dance clubs (because when your skin is as white as mine, strobe lights and black lights tend to make you appear something other than human), most festivals and other public outings, and department store dressing rooms. Victoria's Secret? For-fucking-get it. So there. Now that we've got the issue of Sam's vanity out of the way, we can move on to other things, but I will end this entry here.
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
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