I had a little experience this week that was … well, it was too good to be true. I was in a fashion show. Me. And it wasn’t to work the lights or the sound board … or to clean up in the dressing rooms after the show. I WAS A MODEL, YOU GUYS! That may never happen in my life again.
So there was NO WAY I was going to miss the opportunity to write about it.
There were nine women, all mothers at my daughter’s school, in the show and we each modeled two different ensembles. As a nice, little perk, we all went to the venue early for hair by H20 (a local salon) and make-up by Chanel. And the ladies from the department store showed up with all of the clothes and accessories. Plus there were staff members from the venue serving food. And drinks. Seriously, there were as many people on the prep team waiting on us as there were models.
(I think I just found another reason to hate supermodels.)
Were we nervous, you ask?
Well, sure. So I did my best to calm everyone’s nerves by broadcasting a YouTube clip in the dressing room. I’m sweet like that. CLICK HERE to view it. (P.S. Do not view with kids in the room!)
But you know that? Despite my innate spazzery … and complete inability to walk in heels, I did it. WE did it. All of us. And nobody fell. Wanna see?
Every single person who sees this picture comments on the empty wine glass. Hello? That was not mine. If you look near me, you will see a champagne flute. And it is full. FULL! … But would later be emptied … twice.
A selfie that was probably taken a bit too close. (Damn my short limbs.) Thankfully, I’d already visited the make-up artist. And no. My hair is not done yet.
When I texted this dolled-up picture of myself to Dave, all I got was “Is that my shirt?”
So we converted Dave’s shirt into a graduation drape for the occasion. Hair before husband’s wardrobe, right?
Ready to get our runway on!
Feet … plus legs, arms, bladder, intestinal system and other potentially hazardous body parts … don’t fail me now!
Headed down in the elevator.
Holy crap, I’m next!
All the fabulous models in the show.
It’s over. We did it. We can finally join the party. I’m ready to EAT! (That’s the difference between me and a real supermodel.) (Fine. There are probably several differences.)
Why does the best picture I take always have to be the one that looks like it’s haunted by a demonic spirit?
It was a fun night. Would I do it again? Absolutely. In a second. Only this time, I’d take those freaking heels off AS SOON AS I finished the show. It’s been two days and my feet still hurt!
And I call myself a girl.
For Mamakat’s writing prompt: Go back in time and choose a different career path for yourself. What do you choose?
It’s a shame I didn’t CHOOSE this profession for myself, isn’t it? Because that’s the only reason I’m not modeling now. Because I didn’t CHOOSE to do it. At 5’3″ tall. And 100-and-mind-your-own-damned-business-pounds.
Pity.
OldDogNewTits 