There’s a story behind my red suede fedora and pitifully blue floral shorts. I picked out the outfit myself. I was around the age of four at the time.
Being the only girl of three kids in my family, I was sometimes excluded. This was one such event. My parents staged a DIY photo shoot in the living room for just the boys and dressed them up in these enviably crisp tuxedos that my grandparents had sent from the States. I, not being one of the “boys,” was told to sit out on this one. I didn’t like that one bit. I fussed and cried and was subsequently sent to my room. After scream-crying into my pillow for a good while, I decided to crash their stupid, sexist, self-indulgent photo shoot. I remember this part vividly: Under the dim light of my bedroom, I shuffled through my drawers and picked out what I deemed to be the prettiest ensemble of clothes I owned. You’re looking at it right now in the picture.
If being a middle child has taught me anything, it’s that it’s okay to photobomb other people’s pictures. The end.
15 Apr 2011 / 7 notes