I have always harbored a secret desire to be a model. I think I am drawn to the glamour, the fame…the requisite drug habit. That dream was dashed when I stopped growing in seventh grade. But I got a second chance at being discovered last week, when a designer friend, Melissa D’Agostino, asked me, along with some of her other clients, to model for her collection being unveiled during Philadelphia Fashion Week.
Melissa is part of the Philadelphia Fashion Incubator at Macy’s in Center City and this show was a culmination of twelve months of work while in the program. So, no pressure. The other designers used agency models, young women who were long on limbs, and short on conversation. (I learned this while waiting for an hour for my hair to be done. I sat next to one gaggle of women whose superficial prattle was maddening. I’m sure I never sounded so vapid when I was 19, like, for sure.)
Regardless, I was thrilled to be a part of Melissa’s show. She is talented, the clothes are beautiful, and it was an honor to be a part of such a fabulous group of women. Although the entire adventure was dazzling and exciting, it was also nerve wracking. This picture doesn’t give the height of my shoes justice, but let me say I got calf cramps just trying to put them on. One must suffer for fashion, right? I spent the next two hours with clenched feet anytime I took them off the floor. But don’t they look great?
I also won’t elaborate on the five-day detox that got me confident enough to wear skin tight jersey in front of a hundred people. No alcohol, no caffeine, no sugar, no white flour. Get sufficient sleep, and throw in some yoga, and my skin looked the best its ever looked as an adult. But man, was I cranky. I suppose its the price you pay.
Maybe my fate isn’t to be America’s next really short model, but at least it was a fun adventure to find out.