One woman’s quest to ditch her…

By Pamela Hoevel
I think it was a gradual evolution, my view of Valentine’s Day.  Somewhere along the way, the shiny joy of wearing sparkly heart earrings and passing out valentines (always carefully homemade; always involving a red construction paper heart, a doily, and a foil wrapped chocolate heart) dulled to smug indifference and finally darkened to a tarnished disdain.  Maybe I’d spent too many Valentine’s Days alone.  Maybe the few dates that I went on fell grotesquely short of my lofty expectations.  (By lofty, I mean unrealistic; okay, maybe even delusional.  Did I really give into the convoluted notion that a Valentine’s Day wasn’t proper unless it involved a scene out of Pretty Woman – the “escort” aspect not withstanding – or at the very least, a spontaneous slow dance to a hummed rendition of Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,” ending with a dip and a passionate kiss?) At any rate, I sneered at the putrid holiday, condemning those that succumbed to the pressures of commercialism veiled by seemingly necessary grand gestures of love.
 
With a stubborn resoluteness, I carried my jaded anti-Valentine’s Day convictions with me into marriage.      Oh sure, out of guilt I’d perfunctorily given a few cards, and later I made the requisite heart doilies for my daughter’s classmates, but I still held a grudge against the damned holiday.  It wasn’t until recently that I realized I’ve stubbornly been schlepping around heavy hostilities from single days gone by.  The truth is I have a wonderful husband who ignores my beastly morning breath and plants a big fat kiss on my lips; who grabs my butt with gusto even when I look like a train wreck; and who would twirl me around town and spoon feed me chocolate soufflés and Steak Tartars for two if I’d only let him.  It was time to embrace Valentine’s Day not because it’s yet another holiday on the calendar, but because it gives us a reason –or reminder-- to enthusiastically celebrate the glorious, wonderful thing called love –but I was going to do it my way.     

Stripped Down to Our Skivvies
My husband Darren and I have spent nearly a decade together.  We once lived on our own figurative island but decided to populate it with a couple of wild things.  Over the years we’ve reveled in laughter, gotten lost in routine, and been to the brink and back--and have become stronger for it.  No, we’re not bright-eyed, baby faced newlyweds anymore but we still have a ways to go before we’re too blind to see each other’s droopy backsides.   I wanted a memento of us at this point in time; a story that I could read between the lines.  Basically, I wanted a still-picture, slightly more clothed version of Heidi Klum and Seal’s music video for “Secret.”  (In case you missed it, the couple, donned in nothing but their birthday suits, candidly caress one another while Seal croons “I belong to you/ And you belong to me/Look at me/ I’m your heart’s keeper…” Think of it in terms of a beautiful glimpse of intimacy, not a raunchy x-rated video.)  And my hubby, always the good sport, or perhaps looking to put credits in the bank, agreed. 

In a week’s time, I found myself locked in my bathroom thinking, “Do I just walk out there?  Is it weird to walk out in just my underwear? I really should have had a cocktail.”  After consulting with myself in the mirror I decided that the best thing to do was to act as if getting photographed practically naked by a stranger is something I do every day.  So out I walked in my lacey barely-theres, trying desperately to look confident despite my very evident awkwardness.  Ever the professional, Tamara Kenyon of Tamara Kenyon Photography, easily chatted away (with eyes clearly focused above my neck) as she set up her equipment. Although I politely bantered back, I wore a smile that I’m sure looked more painful than pleasant, because the unrelenting voice inside my head was scolding, “Unfold your arms, act natural!”  To help ease my nerves, or maybe drown out my thoughts, we plugged in the iPod (at which point I realized I’d forgotten to look beyond the massive task of shaving my legs to the important detail of making an appropriate playlist).  And then Darren and I hit the sheets.
   
As we struck our first intimate poses it became blindingly apparent that while my husband had the confidence of a rock star, I certainly was not a supermodel.  With his lips positioned on my neck and his hand caressing my lacey hip, I dissolved into giggles.  Out loud I repeatedly said, “Sorry!  Just give me a minute!” but the voice inside my head screamed, “Pull it together!  Pretend you’re Heidi!”  They made tenderly caressing in the buff look so easy, Heidi Klum and Seal. 

As the minutes ticked away with the clicks of the camera, and with loads of encouragement from Kenyon, I loosened up and tried desperately to channel my inner Heidi.  We positioned ourselves languorously on the bed (as languorously as my rigid body would allow).  We pressed our bodies together against the wall. We gently kissed each other’s lips by the window.  All the while Kenyon suggested a hand here or a leg there for the perfect shot.  And just when I was beginning to think I could totally become a Victoria Secret’s Model (you know, if I miraculously grew a couple of cup sizes and a robust rump), our boudoir photography session was over.     

Within days, the seriously efficient Ms. Kenyon emailed us a handful of her favorite pictures—just enough to tide us over until she sent us the whole portfolio a week or so later.  In testament to her talent, she was able to see past my stiff poses and God-awful Zoolander pouts, and capture the sweet “in between moments.” While I love the pictures of us gazing deeply into each other’s eyes or Darren gently kissing my neck, I absolutely adore the sincere, candid photos in which we’re sharing a laugh or exchanging a brief loving glance –which I’m sure are the beautiful little moments Tamara Kenyon set out to capture.  And even though I was less like Heidi Klum and more like Molly Shannon, I got exactly the memento I wanted.

A Novel Idea
Like every other parent in the universe, Darren and I find it hard to carve out time for our each other, to do a little something special, when we’ve got two children constantly at our side.  This is especially hard to do since we’re two very paranoid people (okay, I’m mostly the paranoid one), afraid to leave our children with a babysitter for fear we’ll see them on America’s Most Wanted only after they’ve kidnapped our babies and fled to Mexico.  So, our celebration of love would have to be on off hours-- and I was going to make it a surprise. 

Remembering the painstaking task of choosing the perfect, classically sexy-but-not-trashy outfit for our first few dates together, and then seeing his reaction as I opened the door, I was inspired to illicit the same reaction.  While I knew a pencil skirt and a pair of heels would make him go gaga, I wanted something new, something that would make me feel extra beautiful.  So, I made an appointment with Anna Dempsay, gifted jewelry designer and owner of Body Novelties, whose slogan “Beauty Beyond Clothing” matched my sentiments exactly. 

My eyes wandered over each unique piece of jewelry: (among countless other adornments) stunning sterling silver pendants suspended by iridescent spherical stones, bracelets of small multicolored blown glass globes, ankle cuffs of intricately wrapped copper wire, wispy feather hair extensions.  And then they paused on what could possibly be considered Ms. Dempsay’s opus – her intimate body jewelry collection. Being the modest type that I am, I felt a flush warm my cheeks as I couldn’t help but admire the painstakingly crafted panties – the front, a triangle web of polished stones and illustrious fresh water pearls woven together by thin metal threads, connected by a series of delicate draping metal chains to a single strand of smooth lavender pearls in the back. The unique ornament, intricate and sensual, was striking enough to be worn by a goddess, and undoubtedly created to make a woman feel like one. Although I was tempted to venture far beyond my comfort zone with the beaded unmentionables, I was taken by a necklace of flat, polished circular stones the color of Caribbean waters intermingled, like shimmering sparkles on the ocean, with tiny silver beads.
           
It just so happened that a day later Darren had an evening event that wouldn’t bring him home until 9’clock or so. Taking full advantage of this opportunity, I ordered a pizza for the kids (and practically force fed them in the name of time), ushered them into the bath, sped read them a story, and promptly turned out the lights, threatening the disappearance of a beloved Barbie if they should emerge from their rooms before morning. When Darren saw me dressed in a sexy black number, and heels nonetheless, with a candle lit dinner on the table (a repurposed assortment of left-overs), he looked a little confused. I’m not sure that he was more surprised to find a) that I had done something utterly romantic just for him; b) that I’d handled the dinner time/bath time/bedtime pandemonium all by myself and I still had a smile on my face; or c) that I wasn’t already passed out in bed, wearing one of his undershirts, an old pair of work out shorts, and my ever sexy ecclesial guard. I’m sure it all passed through his mind. But, as he kissed my neck and ran his fingertips over the necklace that made feel like a million bucks, I remembered that I was once just his “girl” and not yet his wife or the mother of his children. In the glow of the candles and the melody of the music and the quietness of the house, it was just us as we were before.
 
In the end, we’d managed to evade boxes of chocolates (although, I wouldn’t have turned that gift down), side-step heart shaped cards filled with rhyming verse, and deflect Steak Tartar for two in an intimately crowded restaurant. We hadn’t just gone through the motions of a routine Valentine’s Day but actually honored our love and commitment to one another. I didn’t have to sneer at the 14th of February on the calendar any more, I could embrace it. I know what you’re thinking. It’s very possible I could end up despising Valentine’s Day again by trying to out-do the events of the previous year. I see your point but I don’t think so. Like my favorite boudoir photographs, the small, intimate moments are the ones I cherish the most. If next year we don’t get naked in front of a stranger or wear beads for underwear, but instead share a quite minute in the midst of a hectic day, it will still be a day well celebrated.
                          
For more information, or to schedule your own boudoir photography session with Tamara Kenyon, visit www.tk-foto.com or phone (208) 695-7182.  For more information, or to view Anna Dempsay’s jewelry line, visit www.bodynovelties.com or phone (208) 629-9613.