Watch me blush, hear me roar

I went for a print ad shoot for some new real estate property the other day. I was required to bring my own clothes, which they eventually didn’t utilize. Their own selection was mildly unnerving.

The art director allowed me to take back some Polaroid test shots.

No offense to certain bloggers, but to me, if evil was a colour, it would be pink. I’ve always harbored an aversion to it, visualizing all the little shades of pink as minions reporting to their fuschia leader. I, like all fellow females of the species, have endured a childhood lavishly blooming in rose-tinted frills, lace, ribbons and every other pink peril at every formal occasion. When I grew old enough to form my own decisions, I flipped a middle finger to my gender-typical roots and I sought refuge in the cool comforts of blue.

The pink was one thing, the crushed velvet was another. Not that I completely abhor the textile type – I used to think it was the hottest thing to wear, especially to boyband performance showcases at shopping malls. So whenever my bony fingers glide across that undulating fuzz, it reminds me of a long-sleeved lime green disaster I wore in an attempt to seduce the Ultra boys as they autographed my tattered Smash Hits poster.

I was expecting the sight of bright pink crushed velvet to burn my eyes, but the damage wasn’t as severe as I had expected it to be. In fact, it didn't look all that... bad.



I was just about settling into the blouse when they pulled out the next set of clothing for me to try. This one was just... cor.

I’ve never, EVER made bodily contact with leopard print. I, if anything, have made sure it doesn’t get anywhere within a 5 mile radius from me. Not only was I forced to wear this top that had an 80s cut ending above my navel, rusty snap-on buttons and reeked of mothballs, but it also was made of material that had a feel likened to steel wool. I ripped it off after the shoot to check my skin for hives.



I was required to specifically pose like this, but I would have had a justifiable motive for putting my hand to my face that way. And if you look closely, that smile can actually double up as a polite grimace.

I showed the shot to my mom. As predicted, she loved the garb.