Jennifer Savage
I stripped down to my underwear this week and had my picture taken by a man I didn’t even know. What can I say? It’s been an odd week.
Maybe I should do some explaining.
I got an email a few weeks ago asking some mamas to do a photo shoot – and underwear photo shoot. When I first read the message I was sure the woman who conceived of this idea had absolutely lost her mind. I thought, wow, that’s brave. I hope they have a good time. But as I moved through the week, I kept thinking about the photo shoot.
The concept, women of all body types, whose bellies had been stretched proud from babies, getting down to the basics with each other in a supportive environment, resonated with me. I have two young daughters and I’m always saying how I want them to be proud of their bodies. I saw in this an opportunity to, well, put up or shut up. Where else will they learn to be confident in their own skin if not from their mama? But the thought of having my picture taken in my under things terrified me.
I took a deep breath and emailed the woman in charge.
“So, is that a yes?” she wrote back.
“It’s an I’m thinking about it,” I wrote.
Then I started talking to a few other women who were thinking of going. We talked about our bodies: the soft around the middle parts, the soft around the booty parts. We talked about stretch marks and breasts that hadn’t been perky since our babies started tugging at them years ago. We blushed like schoolgirls at the thought of it and made I-will-if-you-will pacts.
But still, I thought I’d show up, survey the scene and see what felt right. The afternoon of the shoot I went through my underwear drawer to see what I might take with me if I was so inclined to model when I got there. I dug past the mountain of Hanes Her Way to find a few remnants of my former self. Under some lace and ruffle and forgotten “pretty panties” that I don’t even remember buying even though I must have, I found a tasteful black and cream camisole set. I did not buy it and no one bought it for me. It once belonged to my friend Jessica.
One day when we were in grad school she must have been combing through her stuff when the camisole came flying at me from across the room.
“Here,” she said. “Take it. I don’t ever wear it. It’s yours.” I took it and didn’t think much of it.
Jessica is one of my best friends. She’s matter-of-fact, confident and generous. When we met in grad school ten years ago we got on like a house on fire. She walked into our orientation and I knew we’d be friends. We spent the next two years drinking gin and tonics on her porch, trying our hand at canning things, cooking on any and every occasion and, some days, writing.
When I found the camisole the other day, I had forgotten all about it. But holding it up to the light I thought of her then, a buttery Oregon summer day all around us. I thought about how she, Mark, Seth and I lived together that year, how we drank cheap beer, swung from rope swings and tried to grow vegetables in her spidery, overgrown garden beds.
I thought of her now and how this past year has been full of twists and turns no one could have imagined. I thought about the doctors and scans, needles and drugs that have become a chapter in her story. I thought about how she’s the bravest person I know.
So I mustered a little bravery of my own. With nothing but love for my friend, I tucked her hand-me-down skivvies into my bag, grabbed my red wedding shoes and headed out the door. Somehow getting down to my underwear wasn’t actually that scary anymore.
When I arrived at the closed coffee shop where the shoot was set up, women milled around drinking wine. When we got down to our underwear it was surprisingly comfortable. We sat around chatting, pretending to drink coffee or make bread or talk on our cell phones while the photographer took pictures.
The women in the room that night were imperfect, and beautiful because of it. Their bodies had stories to tell.
Stories of marathons and ski races, triathlons and mountain peaks. Stories of miscarriage and heartbreak. Stories of babies born healthy. Stories of loss, illness and recovery.
As I looked around at the collective curve of us, I thought about the story we were telling in that moment. The one about patience and forgiveness. The one about being gentle with ourselves. The one about acceptance.
Jennifer Savage is a writer and mama of Eliza and Lucille. Lately, she’s learning to be a city girl. She writes from her home in Missoula, Montana. She is also one of Mamalode’s favorite writers and you can fall in love with her too at Savagemama.com Read more of Jennifer’s mamalode articles here
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Our bodies have stories to tell…so true. Amazing how comfortable that night was. A testament to the incredible women involved and my personal evolution into loving my body for what is it capable of–running marathons, growing and supporting life.
Never thought I’d be kinda proud of stretch marks. xo
Ooooh, yah! A great way to start my day! I love it, Jennifer. Unh!
Jen–
Very nice! The way you wrote about the photo shoot makes me wish I had been bold enough to join in. Although the thought of it still makes me break out in hives…
This made me cry. Absolutely beautiful; you are beautiful. Those lucky girls of yours….
Thanks for the well written article Jennifer. Having a young impressionable daughter of my own I am trying the best I can to move into “middle age” as gracefully as possible. I am acutely aware of how I comment on my physical body changes, my aging face, my droopy boobs, and my cushy bottom. I remind myself about the body being the temple that houses a much more “beautiful and perfect” being. One that is not necessarily physically seen but rather felt. One that is connected to all other beautiful beings like yourself and women of all ages. We need to speak and praise more the beauty that is within both men and women so our children (and ourselves) grow to love themselves in more meaningful ways.
Love it! What an amazing, beautiful idea!
I’m so glad to see you writing again. I’ve missed it! xo
After a very long, sleepless night…feeling a bit ragged and inadequate, this just made my morning. Thanks.
I bake at Bernices @ night and when I heard about this shoot (from my coworkers who said you were all lovley)!!!! I was SOOOO proud of you mammas, I’m a mother too & could probably never have done this! Thank you for putting a sexy, powerful, playful face on motherhood!
This was amazing! Just what I needed this morning to get out of my little pity hole. =D Thank you for the good cry!
It was an honor to be part of this. I walk among the truly blessed. Thank you
. Gram
jen-
I found your account of the evening and what the whole thing meant (for you and for everyone else) eloquent and moving. it was a true honor to be the man you didn’t even know behind the camera that night. I can’t wait to hear what you all think of the photos.
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