Oh, it's been a while. Feeling less terrible now.
A few weeks ago, Vanessa invited me to model her designs for the Eskimo show at Heaven Gallery. This is a big deal, because inside almost every woman is a twelve-year-old who's been reading YM and hoping to be "discovered." I feigned nervousness, but just between you and me, I was greedy for the attention. I imagined walking down the makeshift catwalk, striking surprise into the hearts of art gallery attendees everywhere. "My, look at that vision of femininity," they would murmur. "Though she is of modest height and bra size, she will most certainly become an inspiring muse who will escape the drudgery of office life for the overpaid work of modeling. Get me Anna Wintour's phone number, pronto."
Vanessa had sewn a pretty "ice queen" ensemble for me to wear. I was supposed to act like the foxy girl in high school who wouldn't put out (no comments, please). During the runthrough, I naively volunteered to wear a skimpy outfit by one of Vanessa's fellow designers. It involved a thong, two scraps of fabric, a shirt, and not much else. "Oh, go for it! It's good to try new things," I reasoned. "This will help me become less shy, and I will be a catwalk sensation!"
I think you know where this is going.
The night of the show: Let me tell you, nothing says "introvert's nightmare" like a loft full of hipsters who are all about to discover what half of your ass looks like. It doesn't help when the fashion show's host is a grown man in a sock monkey costume. When it was time for my big debut, a few other models and I waited backstage (I knocked over a spotlight—the meaning of Anne is grace, remember). Remembering the director's instructions to walk slowly, I hurried down the runway with all the sex appeal of Yul Brenner speed-walking around the mall. After the show ended, I halfheartedly hid behind fake icebergs.
A few weeks ago, Vanessa invited me to model her designs for the Eskimo show at Heaven Gallery. This is a big deal, because inside almost every woman is a twelve-year-old who's been reading YM and hoping to be "discovered." I feigned nervousness, but just between you and me, I was greedy for the attention. I imagined walking down the makeshift catwalk, striking surprise into the hearts of art gallery attendees everywhere. "My, look at that vision of femininity," they would murmur. "Though she is of modest height and bra size, she will most certainly become an inspiring muse who will escape the drudgery of office life for the overpaid work of modeling. Get me Anna Wintour's phone number, pronto."
Vanessa had sewn a pretty "ice queen" ensemble for me to wear. I was supposed to act like the foxy girl in high school who wouldn't put out (no comments, please). During the runthrough, I naively volunteered to wear a skimpy outfit by one of Vanessa's fellow designers. It involved a thong, two scraps of fabric, a shirt, and not much else. "Oh, go for it! It's good to try new things," I reasoned. "This will help me become less shy, and I will be a catwalk sensation!"
I think you know where this is going.
The night of the show: Let me tell you, nothing says "introvert's nightmare" like a loft full of hipsters who are all about to discover what half of your ass looks like. It doesn't help when the fashion show's host is a grown man in a sock monkey costume. When it was time for my big debut, a few other models and I waited backstage (I knocked over a spotlight—the meaning of Anne is grace, remember). Remembering the director's instructions to walk slowly, I hurried down the runway with all the sex appeal of Yul Brenner speed-walking around the mall. After the show ended, I halfheartedly hid behind fake icebergs.
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