You’re only young once
Back in nursery school, we had some program where I had to do a costume change in between numbers. I distinctly remember my mom hurrying me along, telling me to take my clothes off—in full view of a classroomful of people! I was so reluctant, and I couldn’t understand why my mom didn’t think it was a big deal for me to strip in front of all those strangers. It happened again at a family beach trip. I was so unwilling to change into my swimsuit out in the open, but as with the previous incident, didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. It’s strange to me now that, at three or four years of age, I already had a concept of hiya.
Fast forward to about 15 years later. In the frenzy backstage and in dressing rooms during many gigs, dance concerts, and even a few fashion shows I was in (and I mean few, because I’m way too short and not exactly reed thin), stripping was a way of life. There’s no such thing as modesty when you’re due onstage in 10 seconds. And so I got used to walking around with barely anything on, and would freely change in front of my girl friends during slumber parties or out-of-town trips.
But it’s one thing to stand nekkid in front of people you’ve grown up with, or people you’re performing with (they’re standing half-clothed in front of you, too). It’s quite another to pose in front of those who are there to scrutinize every curve and imperfection. So it took me quite a while to figure out if I would actually do it, should the opportunity present itself. And I’ve decided: What the heck. You’re only young once.
I’d much rather pose like this—hands cupping my breasts, legs crossed—than have the goods exposed entirely!
Like every other girl on this planet, I have had my issues with my body. I am not and will never be skinny (nor do I want to be). I used to get depressed that my figure was so different from my friends’ (particularly the ballerinas!). A friend once commented that I have a shape that belongs in the 60s, whatever that means. But I’m at the age when I’m coming to terms with who I am, my physical self included. So this is the best time for me to do it: I’m young enough so that certain body parts haven’t succumbed to the laws of gravity, but I’m old enough to be comfortable in my own skin. Not entirely comfortable, but I’m getting there.
And what would I do to prepare? I’d ask one question: “So, Mr. Bencab, do you believe in Photoshop?” And if he doesn’t (and if I’m lucky enough to not even get a whack on the head), then I’d shrug my shoulders, get my ass to the gym, and do what I can to make it a portrait my grandkids can look at with pride—before they turn away and hurl at having seen lola in all her naked glory.