Burlesque to Boudoir: Reclaiming My Body. Part 7

Continued from Part 6

November/December 2021

I have had my final surgery: a cyst and ovary removal. As far as the future looks, I have no reason to set foot inside a hospital again. My surgeon even said, "I hope I never see you again."

The Minnesota Renaissance Festival season is over. I am tired. When it ends, I'm ready for it to be over. I'm ready for a rest. But it still doesn't take long after that for the interest in a new creative project. I've been writing here and there, but I wanted something else. And then, Noah bought the shirt. The one at the top of the article. He was refreshing his closet with a couple new shirts and some jeans. This shirt jumped out at me; it spoke to me.

To me, it looked a bit like the Fraser tartan from the show 'Outlander' on STARZ. Around the time the show came out, I was even told I looked like I could have been Jamie and Claire's daughter.

I do so love the look of a man in a kilt, but the inspiration of the look was less Sam Heugan, more Rose in Titanic, her phrasing. "I want you to draw me wearing this, wearing only this."

Keep in mind, I've been married to Noah for fifteen years. He's become a talented photographer and editor in the last couple years. I love my husband dearly. I was still awkward and could not form a clear, coherent sentence to simply say, "I want you to take boudoir photos of me in heels and just your shirt." ...I WISH I could have been that eloquent when I asked him. I was not.

A couple weeks later, it was a quiet Sunday morning, I asked Noah, if he was up for it, could we take the pictures. He set up the lights, prepped his camera, and it was on.

I told him I had a simple vision: I had your shirt, and I was thinking of you.

Pretty easy to execute the vision since he's the one behind the camera.

He knows me better than anyone else in the world. I trust him. It's that simple.

Through surgeries, recovery, COVID, social distancing, and isolation, he is my partner. My darling love.

Things are and never will be perfect. You can see my scar on my right hip, my panty, and Noah played with the color in the above photo. My eyes never have been and never will be that color. But that's the beauty: the flaws in the process.

I originally wasn't going to share this one because I thought my eyes looked weird. But that's okay. Look at the length on your leg even though it only goes to your knee and how nice your hands look. Your dimples. Your smirk. Just like Rose in Titanic, you're going to be an old woman someday and be able to say, "Wasn't I a dish?"

Over the last few years, you did it Tinka. You performed. You fell on your face. You tried your damnedest. You didn't succeed by their standards, but you succeeded by yours.

At age 28, you decided to love your body as it is. That kind of acceptance is something most women don't achieve until their 40s.

At 30, you got on stage and sucked at something new in front of friends and strangers. You made over $100 that first night. You lost, but had the nerve to go back and try three more times.

You climbed poles, got stronger, and cried a lot of tears. But you did it.

You joined a start-up renaissance fair. You modeled. You traveled. You lived.

You joined your favorite act at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival and won Best Group Act the year you joined. You have talent, believe it or not. People saw something in you that you didn't think was there.

It's been a crazy-ass time for nearly six years. But you couldn't have done it if you weren't a crazy-ass, powerful lady. The correlational between confidence and no shame is a line that you picked up and made into a whip.

You did it.

You decided one day to give up shame, and you haven't looked back since. You have suffered and been on top of the world. Now your about to start a new year, Tinka. You did it. You fucking did it.

...Now go do it again.