Supermodel for a Day

Not a fan of reality TV. The entire genre repulses me in every way but mainly because these shows seem to cater to the depraved side of humanity with no promise of redemption and hope.

There is one show, however, that stops my remote in its tracks. America’s Top Model. No arguments here, please, about how the fashion industry perpetuates the evils of patriarchy, superficiality, etc. That is a debate for another day and not one that you’ll see here.

The drama and emotional upheavals are just as annoying here as in all the other reality shows, but as an author, I see many parallels between the work of a model and the creation of a fictional character. And Tyra Banks offers another perspective on the supermodel stereotype – professionalism and compassion rather than self-important, backstabbing anorexic she-cats who perpetuate the myth that the industry is yet another sigh of the degradation of women.

Aside from that, modeling is hard work.

And now, I have first hand experience of being a model. I work as an office manager by day (a sometimes writer by night), and one of our key vendors for my day job is launching a client-based campaign to promote their services. Yours truly was chosen as a spokesperson for this advertisement.

I’m the type that would choose reading over socializing and I’m the type that chooses reading over socializing and while this abject fear of people has lost me many opportunities, I often take the easy road and retreat behind my own four walls. The thought of posing in front of a camera? “Working it?” In front of all those people? No way. But before I could say no, a yes was out of my mouth, and for once I didn’t chicken out.

So the day of the shoot arrives and I am showering at 4am to meet the crew at the mosquito infested swamp-ridden stretch of land about twenty minutes from my house. The production manager, Janet, took me in hand, led me to a table laden with food and at first light, Deb led me to wardrobe (the back of her SUV), followed by a visit with Kathleen for my makeup. This was very fun and glamorous for me, but I noticed, as the photographers and art director, and various VIPs arrived, waiting, for their “model” to start the day, how utterly co-dependent this production team must be for a successful shoot. Each person is vital from Janet to the photographer to the model.

The latter must be professional and egoless, alert and malleable, both physically and mentally. The team said I did a great job, and I learned a lot and had a blast, but a model I am not. Too concerned with what other people think and unable to muster emotion on demand, there is no way I could do this career even if I had the looks for it, but I came away grateful to walk in Giselle’s shoes (thankfully not high heels!) and with a certain confidence that I did not have before, proof of which came when the Starbucks clerk told me I looked just like Julia Roberts. I may have channeled her laugh at that moment because I am not being modest when I say I look nothing like her. When I took that mask off, I was me again.

A couple of days later, I had lunch with a high school acquaintance. Way back then, she was coupled with My First Love, always unrequited, but instead of jealousy, I looked up to her, to them. They were the epitome of punk rock love, the Tim Burton prom king and queen, and she was this pixie-punk alternative to everything that was bland about the All American Kid, the Veronica amidst the Heathers, the Wednesday Addams of the halls. She taught me that I didn’t have to fit into the mainstream that made me so very uncomfortable and so we donned the clothes of the alternative subculture.

Now, we both present a different face to the world. Inside, I am still that goth-grunge-geek-goddess, but outside? Who cares? It doesn’t matter. Over lunch, we talked about identity and how it’s okay to morph into different masks, that one sometimes has to in order to survive. Being who you are is sometimes not being who you are. In her case, she wore the punk persona as a suit of armor; I wore it because I never did feel comfortable in anything but my Dad’s army pants and a pair of Doc’s. We were our own brand of supermodel back then. Now, we both feel lucky to understand that “each one of us is a brain... and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal.” (John Hughes, The Breakfast Club.)

Sometimes, this getting old thing isn’t so bad. But it sure would help to have a cook and wardrobe and makeup every morning.

On the Nightstand: In the Fall by Jeffrey Lent and a re-read of The Road because the latter is just that good.

In Queue: Karen Marie Moning’s long-awaited Dreamfever. Sookie, Sookie, and more Sookie. And maybe it’s the promise of autumn in the air, poking its head out of the humidity, but I have an inkling to visit Hogwarts again.

On the iPod: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. And Eddie Vedder.

Crush of the Week: Vampire Eric. And, um, well, yeah…Eddie Vedder.