
A few months ago, I came across some photographs of my high school senior-year spring break trip to Cancun. As I reflected on horseback riding through the ocean with my girlfriends and bus rides singing ‘La Bamba’ on repeat – I couldn’t help but think, “Where did that girl go?” Not the one who went bungee jumping over the ocean after a booze-cruise, I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m no longer 18. No, the girl I want to know again is the one with that tiny, flat waist. The toned thighs. GIVE HER BACK OR I WILL CUT YOU!
Ahem.
Clearly, my vanity had gotten the best of me.
When I was prompted a few weeks later by Meggie with the opportunity to schedule a boudoir photo shoot with the lovely Molly Connor, I knew that I should take it. I don’t plan on things going downhill from 27 but if I learned nothing else from looking at those photos, it’s that my youthful looks won’t stick around forever. So I scheduled the session.
When I mentioned my upcoming photo shoot, I was surprised by the number of girlfriends and internet lady-friends that expressed an interest. Some thought it would make a great gift for their husbands or boyfriends, while others thought it was just a nice thing to do for themselves. After completing the session, I’d recommend it for either.
Of course, I’ll speak candidly with you here when I say that it’s impossible to de-sexualize the experience. (HI, DAD! Awkward?) However, there’s also no doubt about the fact that women’s bodies are just beautiful, plain and simple. The difference is within the level that you decide to take it to. When searching for inspirational images across the internet, I came across a few that made me blush. I was thinking more along the lines of Vanity Fair than I was Hustler. In the end, I came up with a Pinterest board with pictures that I felt were both classy and alluring.

When it came to the day of the shoot, I felt less than prepared. Beau and I had just spent a week on vacation and my body? Well let’s just say it felt less than camera-ready. But I sucked it up (literally), drank a little champagne, put on some Micky Avalon and gave it my best. Molly recommended having both hair and makeup done on site, which I think is crucial for photo shoot satisfaction. Ladies, no matter how good we think we are at our own hair and makeup (unless you’re a professional) I suggest you leave it to them. It’s well worth the extra money.
While some women opt for nudity and suggestive shots, I went in a slightly different direction. Robes, tank tops and boy shorts topped my list of favorite looks. I found that I was more drawn to an over-sized white button up shirt more than a lace corset. I even gave pearls a whirl, although I came to the conclusion that despite a lovely photo or two, I am decidedly not a pearl-wearing girl.

Molly was an absolute star. She was professional, creative, and calming. She cracked jokes (not about my cellulite) to put us both at ease and before I knew it, the hour and a half session was over. A week later, I had a disc full of photos that I plan to keep under lock and key forever. It’s near impossible not to criticize yourself in a situation like this. By the time I had looked at a handful of images, I was convinced I need liposuction, Botox, hair extensions and a bathtub full of Mederma (thanks for that, you jerk of a gallbladder).
BUT THEN MY JAW DROPPED.
There on my computer screen, was an (if I do say so myself) absolutely stunning photograph. A few slides over, another. A few more and another. Molly had executed a miracle. In the end, I had a dozen photographs that I was pretty damn proud of. As I said, the photos are staying under lock and key but I did pull a few aside that I feel comfortable sharing so that you can see the quality of her work.
While I’ll always treasure photos from my youth, I know that I’ll never have my high-school body back. And that’s okay because you know what? High-school me would eat her heart out for these.

All images by Molly Connor of Molly Connor Photography.
Please do not use them for any reason without permission…that means YOU, creeper.