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Vacation Hangover
I am currently in the throes of the worst post-vacay hangover of my entire life.
Part of me thinks it’s not even worth it to go away, considering the pain that follows upon returning from an amazing vacation.
My husband and I are one week removed from the most amazing trip to Hawaii, most of which we spent on Maui.
Me & J, happy in Hawaii. I'll spare you the "after" photo -- not pretty.
Talk about a magical place. We stayed in a condo on Ka’anapali beach via VRBO (see it here), which I HIGHLY recommend for Maui. I can’t imagine staying in a hotel when you can eat breakfast watch the sun set on your totally private, NYC studio apartment-sized lanai (Hawaiian for balcony). For the price we paid, we’d be looking at a parking lot in a hotel. And THIS never got old:
The rainbows would come and go, but you get the idea.
We somehow managed to find the perfect mix of island adventures/exploring and pure relaxation. Over ten days, we saw a life-changing sunrise 10,000 feet above sea level on Haleakala, happened upon friendly sea turtles while snorkeling near our condo (only to emerge from the water to watch WHALES breaching in the distance), ate amazing food, took in an awesome, non-cheesy luau, and drove through the rainforest.
All of this was broken up by many hours reading and dozing in a lounge chair in front of the Pacific Ocean. You know, ’cause all the fun was so exhausting.
Normally when I return to Manhattan after a trip, I am re-energized by all the people, noise and other distinguishing factors of this great city. But after Maui? I hate it. It’s too crowded, too noisy, and there are zero opportunities for an impromptu swim in the ocean. I’m not even excited about running and working out with my trainer, which are usually high points of the day. Perhaps that’s because everything’s better in Maui. When I ran in the mornings, a light mist would typically fall, followed by a spectacular rainbow. When I had to take the stairs, there were no subways involved. They looked more like this:
Might I add that this was taken between two of the Seven Sacred Pools and waterfalls?
Think I’m going to need to make a photo album to ease the pain here … much like a great love, I’m not sure how you get over a place like Maui.
The Utter Pain of Being Photographed
Tyra Banks, you were right. I take back all the times I laughed at you and rolled my eyes at what I thought was a ridiculous notion. I stand corrected.
Modeling is hard work.
In an effort to secure a real, professional author photo (for the new memoir I co-wrote, Dwarf … and hopefully, more books to come!) I enlisted Brenna Britton, a very talented photographer and photo editor from PEOPLE.
On a cold Saturday afternoon in January, we set out to Central Park, Brenna with her fancy camera, me with lingering regrets that I didn’t down a cocktail (or four) in an attempt to calm my photo-taking nerves.
I hate taking pictures. All I can think about is everything I don’t like about the way I look being magnified on camera (a thoroughly unique insecurity for a woman, I know) while the photographer–no matter how talented or professional–snaps away. And believe me, Brenna is both of those things.
So I did my best to suck it up, smile, and ignore my inner critic. Some lessons learned …
1. A good blowout pays for itself
Endless thanks to Charlie (who is not a guy, as I suspected, but a girl — cute!) at the Scott J Aveda salon on Columbus Avenue. When I first got my photos back from Brenna, I literally said out loud: “I have Barbie hair!” A friend commented on Facebook that I should be in a Pantene commercial with this mane. I’d like to think that’s where I’m heading in this photo …
Of course, this was far from the end of our day together. Brenna actually got several similarly-decent pics with a funny little trick.
2. Flip hair, laugh at self, repeat
After it became abundantly clear that I only have one “look” (think of happy things, head turned slightly, try to keep eyes open), Brenna employed her patented “New York Girl, Walking” method. On the bridle path in Central Park, I would walk ahead of her until she announced, “OK!” Then, I’d whip my head around, tossing my hair in the process (Tyra would sneer and call it amateurish or commercial, but screw you, T, I’m modelin’!) and look into her camera. It felt so ridiculous that I would laugh at myself, bringing out a real smile in the process.
3. The concept of having a “good side” is very real
As you’ll notice, the trio of photos that I’ll allow for public consumption all feature the same body language … and the same side of my face. The other side, and <shudder> head-on photos just didn’t cut it for this self-conscious gal. See, Tyra, I learned about my angles!
Just a New York girl, walking. Oh, hey, a camera!
Thanks, Brenna — can’t wait to drop one of these bad boys in the book!
