Karen Nicole Costa

A fun sized ball of energy fueled by cupcakes, chai tea, soy milk and lip gloss. My laugh is contagious. Watch out. I believe in bourbon, coffee, lip gloss, and love. Not necessarily in that order. Yogi, theater junkie, writer, giggler, left-handed nerd, dancer. Online marketing manager, copywriter, e-marketer, New Yorker at heart. 28 + sometimes quietly, sometimes publicly, but always ISFJ.

Musings are random, but may include: food, yoga, bourbon, photography, baked goods, running, movies, music, and more.
Recent Tweets @vanillabean45
Posts I Like
“Send me a picture of yourself. No, send me a photo of yourself.” I didn’t understand the different, but I let my hair down, as if it would make the moment special. I read in a magazine that people perceive that you are more polished when your hair is not in a ponytail. I don’t know if I cared if he thought I was polished or not. I washed my hair this morning and it was shiny. People complimented me on my hair all day. I felt like he should see it. I usually stage my photos, but for this one, I didn’t so much care. I knew my physical presence would impress him, and it’s really my mind he’s after. He already knows what I look like. Beautiful, but imperfect. It’s my mind he cannot photograph. It’s my mind he cannot capture. It is my mind that fascinates him.  “You don’t think like other girls.” And he’s right. I don’t. I don’t think like most people. With a pedigree education and life experiences, I am not like most people. This both attracts and frightens him. And there are things I tell only him in the darkest hours of the night. And there are things that I tell him I only tell him in the darkest hours of the night. He doesn’t know any better.  I chose the photo because I’m not making eye contact. With him or the camera. If I make eye contact, he’ll see through me. He’ll see that I’m human. He’ll see the fear in my eyes. I hit send and I’m suddenly anxious, as if I’m going to be judged or on the cover of Elle. As if I could ever be on the cover of Elle.  The phone rings.  “Hello.” I say. A statement, not a question, because I know who it is. I know it’s him.  “You’re a very complex girl.” A long pause. I hear him smoking, the smoldering of the cigarette paper. The sound of his breath in and out. If I think hard enough, I can smell him. I can breathe him in. And I want that. Desperately.  ”I take it back. You’re a very complex woman. Girls aren’t complex. You are not a girl. And you shouldn’t be treated like one. You need a man. You need a hero. You need a champion.” I part my lips mid-thought and just about to speak. Before I have a chance to respond.  Click. 

“Send me a picture of yourself. No, send me a photo of yourself.”

I didn’t understand the different, but I let my hair down, as if it would make the moment special. I read in a magazine that people perceive that you are more polished when your hair is not in a ponytail. I don’t know if I cared if he thought I was polished or not. I washed my hair this morning and it was shiny. People complimented me on my hair all day. I felt like he should see it. I usually stage my photos, but for this one, I didn’t so much care. I knew my physical presence would impress him, and it’s really my mind he’s after. He already knows what I look like. Beautiful, but imperfect. It’s my mind he cannot photograph. It’s my mind he cannot capture. It is my mind that fascinates him. 

“You don’t think like other girls.” And he’s right. I don’t. I don’t think like most people. With a pedigree education and life experiences, I am not like most people. This both attracts and frightens him. And there are things I tell only him in the darkest hours of the night. And there are things that I tell him I only tell him in the darkest hours of the night. He doesn’t know any better. 

I chose the photo because I’m not making eye contact. With him or the camera. If I make eye contact, he’ll see through me. He’ll see that I’m human. He’ll see the fear in my eyes. I hit send and I’m suddenly anxious, as if I’m going to be judged or on the cover of Elle. As if I could ever be on the cover of Elle. 

The phone rings. 

“Hello.” I say. A statement, not a question, because I know who it is. I know it’s him. 

“You’re a very complex girl.” A long pause. I hear him smoking, the smoldering of the cigarette paper. The sound of his breath in and out. If I think hard enough, I can smell him. I can breathe him in. And I want that. Desperately.  ”I take it back. You’re a very complex woman. Girls aren’t complex. You are not a girl. And you shouldn’t be treated like one. You need a man. You need a hero. You need a champion.”

I part my lips mid-thought and just about to speak. Before I have a chance to respond. 

Click. 

Photo
  1. vanillabean45 posted this
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