Nude Photos of Me ~ And No, They Will Not Be Displayed Here!

When I was 49 I had a professional photographer take nude pictures of me. Yes. Nude, as in I had no clothes on. 

Also, my hair was fairly short so I wasn’t able to hide myself behind luscious locks like Lady Godiva did. Sadly, these days, sixteen years later, even her length hair wouldn’t do the trick. Gravity can be cruel. 

I took those photos because my husband was always saying “You should be in Playboy Magazine!” Naturally, he added, “the women over 40 edition” but that was fine. It was realistic. 

It’s like I advise my son, “Doug, never tell a woman she’s beautiful (unless she is) Tell her she’s pretty. ‘Pretty’ is possible and attainable so it doesn’t sound like a line, even if it is. 

Although past my prime, Jimmy would regularly say, “You’re so sexy!” He must have had an image of me from 1972 stuck in his head. Those were the days when I could still turn heads, not stomachs, in a two-piece bathing suit.

It was exhilarating to sneak off to the Greenwich village for a rendezvous with Marie, a sophisticated french photographer. 

Our first meeting was a consultation. She assured me that these black and white photos would be tasteful enough that I could hang them in our living room. Some would be headless and no one would ever imagine they were of me. (No, I never hung them. I hid them.)

On the day of the shoot I felt like I was cheating. There I was, naked and mugging into the camera, not knowing where to place my hands. Marie draped me with various strips of lace that covered bits of myself but she was never quite able to cover up my self consciousness. 

Marie moved from behind the camera to outstretch my arms, turn my face towards an imaginary lover or bend my ankle so that I felt as uncomfortable on the outside as I was feeling on the inside. 

Just as I was beginning to feel less vulnerable and I had semi successfully self talked myself to enjoy it, it was over. 

Six weeks later I picked up 10 finished portraits and many 4X6 proofs of a woman desperately attempting to capture herself before she turned the dreaded fifty and fell apart. I signed a waiver stating Marie could use the headless ones in her upcoming book and was on my way. 

Today I did a brave thing. I brought out the box they were stored in and took a peek. Then, I did an even braver thing. I undressed in front of a full length mirror and compared. 

I discovered:

1. I look better in black and white.
2. Sixteen years does make a difference.
3. Happily my eyesight isn't what it used to be either... 

Guilt Can Kill You ~ Then You're BOTH Dead!

Hi All - Hope you like my new site - this blog was published last month in Pathfinders Magazine, an online and print publication, a fantastic magazine for widows/widowers where I am on staff as a humor writer.  Please check in out when you have a moment. 

Widows and widowers are prone to guilt.  We wallow in it like a bubble bath except it's not as relaxing.

"Why am I still here?"  "Why didn't God take me, too?" "Why did I call him an idiot right before his heart attack?" Sure, I meant it, but still…

Is it my fault that my heart continues to beat and I can still enjoy a tasty hamburger deluxe? I pause to dip my well-done fries in the ketchup.  How can I be devouring this with so much gusto knowing that my husband will never again fork fight me for that last little crispy fry? What is wrong with me?

I wash down my self-discust with a bowl of rice pudding. The coffee is pretty good, too. 

Jimmy would want me to keep up my strength I tell myself.  Wait a minute. Could he be orchestrating my food intake knowing that when I'm bloated I don't leave the house? He's keeping me a prisoner!
If this is "looking over me" I'd rather he spread his angel wings and look over someone else.

I tell my one-on-one bereavement counselor how controlling my late husband is to me lately. One blink is the only movement on her stone face. Mean Jean is tough. I describe her to friends, "She must have studied at the 'snap out of it' school for shrinks."

Her lips crack open. "Did you kill your husband?" She raises one eyebrow and then she hides behind her oversized coffee mug. I suspect her coffee is black, no sugar, no nonsense.  She peers at me above the rim and her eyes narrow.  

My first thought is, "I'm not answering without an attorney present." My second thought is, perhaps 
I should stop binge watching Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. 

I tell her I know where she's going with this and not to lead the witness. Mean Jean tilts her head and waits for me to crack.  She's a professional. She knows I can hold in grief and guilt for just so long. 

My grief and guilt (or GiGi as I like to call them) burst into the room like a tidal wave. "I should have insisted he go to the doctor!" I cry out. And, then, more to myself than to Mean Jean, I mumble, "Why didn't I?" 

MJ explained that guilt is a useless emotion. This is exactly what I needed to hear although I detect a tinge of 'Get over yourself' tone in her voice. I sit up straighter. 

"Listen, Carol, if you want to keep beating yourself up, be my guest. It's good for business." She added a 'ching-ching' register sound. 

At this point,  I was seeing her twice a week and our three month anniversary was approaching.  I noticed that the couch I was sitting on was new. I looked around. So was the carpet. 

For those reading this and wondering why oh why was I seeing her? After all, Mean Jean certainly was a fitting nickname. Here's why ~ she didn't let me wallow.  I know myself. With a softer shrink I might have curled up on a couch and spent the 50 minutes sucking my thumb. I kept going back because every so often she gave me a gem and my breathing was calmer when I left her. 

This day, as I wrestled with feelings of guilt, she blurted out wisdom, a little ditty, that seemed to come out of nowhere, but it made sense to me and it helped me. She had extremely wise ditties. 

She told me that when widows want to re-marry they often go to the cemetery to ask permission. I nodded my head. "I can understand that," I said. 

Mean Jean lifted that one evil eyebrow again sarcastically. "Really?" she said. "It makes  sense to you to ask permission from a dead man?" 

"Well, I figured that…" I stammered. 
"Just for the record, Carol, none of the husbands ever say no."
"So, you're saying…"
"I'm saying our time is up!" She snorted and slapped the arm of her chair. "I'm kidding, kiddo. You should have seen your face?

Eventually, she stopped chuckling and leaned forward to gently touch my arm.

"Honey, emotionally healthy widows and widowers do what they want to do. If they want to remarry, they remarry. If they want to buy a foreign car when their spouse only bought American they say, "Hey, I'm the one driving it."!

She continued, "It's a process to get to that, of course, but they know that it's their turn now and they know that life can be fleeting. They know that better than anyone. 

"They look back, they regret, they give themselves and their marriage a report card and in some subjects they acknowledge that they failed. So what? Dwelling and it's first cousin, guilt, don't change a thing. It only keeps us stuck." 

When our session was officially over I went home and got violently ill. It was food poisoning, no doubt from that delicious hamburger deluxe. In the midst of my misery I thought I heard a familiar snicker.  I imagined it was my husband saying, "You have the pleasure, but, look, you also pay the price."

That wiped away my guilt.