Short, Over 21 & Thrice Birthed: Part One

 

I need to establish three things before I begin this story: I’m short, I’m over 21, and I’ve thrice birthed.

Just so we’re clear here.

So, late one afternoon last fall, one of my neighbors knocked on my door and said she had a totally serious question to ask me.

“Okay,” I answered, naturally apprehensive after that preview.

“Would you like to model for a show we’re doing?” she asked.

Then, she said, “Just kidding. As if!” and walked away, throwing up her arms and cackling as she went.

Well, that’s what I expected her to do, but in actuality, as there was no cackling involved and as she appeared to be staying to await my response, I began to wonder if she was serious. This made me think that perhaps she was a little “confused,” as last I checked, no one wants short chicks over 21 who’ve birthed thrice on the runways.

Then, I realized she was just desperate to find warm bodies, and it all made sense.

“We’re throwing together a benefit event to raise awareness for ovarian cancer, and part of the event is a runway show that we need models for. Interested? ‘Cause if so, you need to let us know right away and get over to the store for a fitting.”

Um, okay.

In large part, I suspect she was trying to be kind and welcoming to a new neighbor, which I greatly appreciated.

The two things that convinced me to agree to do it were: 1.) It was for a great cause and, 2.) It would be a brand new experience for me, something I could check off my bucket list that doesn’t exist.

With LCB’s sage words of advice ringing in my ears, which went something like, “I think you should do it,” I agreed to do it.

And then, literally two minutes later I began to second-guess my decision. “Shouldn’t I have just volunteered to bake something or do a write-up of some sort for this, as opposed to modeling?” I started thinking, and by the time four minutes rolled around, I was sitting on my couch wondering whether a lesser excuse to bail than something like malaria would be good enough. But I was committed, so you know how that goes. “It’s for a good cause,” I kept saying to myself.

I went for the fitting at a shop with extremely good-quality clothes for women much older than I am, if you catch my drift, which my neighbor had thoughtfully prepared me for. The difficulty lay in finding three outfits all in my size, as by this point, most of the models had already been fitted and the choices were rather limited. As a result, some of my clothes needed to be jerry-rigged to fit, and some just ended up a little too big in the end.

So I arrived the night of the rehearsal, under the impression, somehow, that this would be an amateur show. After several clues to the contrary, including the revealing statement from the event’s organizer directed at the models, “I know many of you have professional experience with this,” I realized that it was only amateur in the not-so-much sense.

Another big clue was when several of the models turned sideways, they did this cool trick where they virtually disappeared. No thrice-birtheds among the tall, lithe, disappearing bunch with professional experience. In the end, it was a mixed group, but from my vantage point, a large percentage looked “professional.”

Then, when we started walking the runway, I stifled a groan. These people knew how to walk a runway.

In high school, I distinctly remember how one of my very male friends commented on how I walked funny and then proceeded to demonstrate my walk by strutting across the school gym. It was exceedingly funny at the time. But it didn’t look good at all.

It looked embarrassing. And graceless.

So here these women are, many of them professionals, strutting their stuff on the runway, all of them looking as if they’ve done this before, looking really, really good, and I inconveniently remember that I’m Awkward Gait Girl, who, lest you’ve forgotten, is over 21, short and has thrice birthed. Oh, and I’m a bit klutzy by nature. So clearly this was a good idea, because I so loved the idea of being the one who would provide the moment of unplanned comedy in an otherwise smooth show if I tripped or just generally walked in a strange manner.

During the rehearsal, it dawned on me that if I “accidentally” overstepped the platform in the rehearsal and injured myself, I’d have a valid excuse for avoiding the whole thing. There were some photographers there, but I doubted they’d actually publish pictures of “the fall” when they were trying to promote the event in a positive manner. But that’s the type of thing I always sometimes think about but of course never actually do, so instead it brought to my attention the fact that that would, klutz that I am, be the type of thing that I might do by accident for real during the real thing.

So, there was one more thing to worry about. Nice. I’m good for myself that way.

Then, as I was leaving the stage at the end of the rehearsal, one of the women in charge said to me, “Honey, you have to smile up there. You look scared.”

Scared? Seriously? Here’s the thing. I’m experienced in public speaking, and I’ve done theater in high school and college, so while I was experiencing many emotions in that moment, fear was not one of them. Irritation with myself for thinking this was a good idea, yes. Wishing I could quietly trade spots with someone who’d signed up for a bake-a-thon so I could be more effectual, yes. Scared, no. More than anything, I was concentrating on my walk, trying to get it right. And I just thought, for some reason, until that moment anyway, that maybe by keeping a straight face, I was pulling off the whole “disdain is sexy” concept, like so many of the other models were doing.

Guess not.

So I’d just been consigned to being the perky, smile-me-stupid “we accept all types” model.

Awesome.

Stayed tuned for the conclusion of “Short, Over 21 & Thrice Birthed,” coming soon.