Yesterday, as the city of Ottawa frantically studied the economy on Budget Day 2009, I worried about what to wear. No really.
I had my first ever “photo shoot.” Everyone has strengths, everyone has weaknesses; I’m here to tell you that my strength does not lie in modeling. (I feel sure that short of this admission, America’s Top Model would have come calling… but no, it’s writing and policy analysis for me.)
Never is one more acutely aware of what one is wearing and whether a hair is out of place then when one is being photographed, standing awkwardly in a studio in front of a large white backdrop—furthermore as a representative of ProWomanProLife. Do hairs out of place mean I am unorganized, unruly? Does hair too much in place mean I am wound too tight? Shirt—too stylish, too staid? Colours. Make-up. You get my point. It’s all pretty self-centered. Except that ultimately I am not worried about how I look, per se, but rather how being pro-life is portrayed. (And sure, I’d rather not look terrible, if I had a choice.)
The editor advised that this is not the moment for big broad smiles. And fair enough, abortion is not funny. But how am I to pose for photos without smiling? I’ve been told to please laugh less loudly in no less than three bars over the course of my life. And the unfortunate thing is that the photographer and his assistant were actually quite funny. After each joke, however, I’d have to become serious, and thoughtful. Nothing funny here. So is this now to say pro-lifers just don’t know how to have a good time?
Serious and thoughtful, by the way, with my Slavic heritage, quickly morphs into a KGB operative look. The cheekbones—the intensity—yes, I work for Vladimir Putin, actually, and “policy analyst” is my cover. And if I told you any more, I’d have to kill you.
So. There you have it. Stay tuned. Meanwhile, I will keep the day job—since modeling apparently isn’t an option.
Brigitte would like to add a somewhat semi-related thought: Ah, Andrea. If only more people worried half as much as you do… I have been struggling over the last few days to watch 4 months, 3 weeks & 2 days, the movie about a girl having an illegal abortion in Ceausescu’s Romania that won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, and boy, is it bad. It’s so dreadful in fact that I’m about to give up on it. It’s not like I’m not interested in the story. But these blasted European movies are so focused on displaying all the bad aspects of emotional turmoil that the result is invariably messy, dishevelled, and unbearably grim.by