Why you never let your husband take your OOTD photos.

Back in 2014 I participated in Frocktober, raising some coin for ovarian cancer research by wearing a frock every day for a whole month and posting photos online every day of said frock. I do not own a tripod nor did I want to be fucking around with an actual camera every day, so it was that I discovered that I could get a decent full length snap of my outfit by propping my iPad {I owned a shitty Android phone then} on my chest of drawers, switching to the forward facing camera, and using the ten second timer.

Exhibit A: Frocktober 2014. {Or as I call it, that glorious time when my hair was long and my waist was small.}

Then came the time spent choosing the best photo out of a gazillion, before editing it to bring out the best in the tone and exposure. And even though I never tweaked it in any way beyond brightness, contrast, warmth, and such, it was still a heck of a lot of time wasted.

Enter: the mirror selfie.

I’m not a fan of the mirror selfie but what the heck, I don’t have a selfie stick or someone to take them for me, and my iPhone takes better photos than my iPad. The only problem is that my current place of residence doesn’t allow for a full length mirror selfie because of the un-selfie-friendly duo of poor lighting and small bed-to-mirror distance.

Now mostly I’m fine with the cropped-at-mid-thigh shots I’ve been Instagramming, but this morning I asked my husband if he could please take a full length shot so I could see how my whole outfit looked. {I am crushing hard on this little black flippy hem dress I picked up in Mango last week for 99 HRK, or about $20 AUD}. I very precisely explained how I wanted him to frame the photo, yet as he took it I wondered why the fuck he was kneeling.

Only a man who never takes selfies EVER would take a full length photo of his wife FROM BELOW eye level.

Seriously. I think that even in the photo you can see that I’m thinking “what the actual fuck is he doing taking it so low???”

So I yelled at him a bit, swore a lot, and made him take another one where my smile looks completely carefree and natural and not at all deranged.

During all this our eight year old was patiently waiting for his adult parents to get in the car so we could go and get his usual cafe order of an iced tea, and probably thinking that: a. his parents are funny sometimes, and b. his parents sure are dumbasses.

Shame he’s still too small to help me out.

Might be time for that selfie stick after all…

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