The Modeling Gig

The year was 1983, I was 50 years old and feeling the need of a career change, from housewife/mom to famous model. I had pictures taken and sent them out. Bloomingdale’s called and I got an interview for in-store modeling and also a runway fashion show. I was ecstatic. Fame called, I answered.

            The in-store modeling went okay, maybe not wonderfully. One dress was too big. No one seemed interested as I walked around the restaurant—in the store—trying to look professional. The runway gig was to die for and that’s just what I wanted to do when it was over—die. I was worse than bad, I was a nightmare.

            It’s 2012, almost thirty years later—six months shy of my 79^th birthday—my 80^th year! And, I find that I’m testing myself again. I’m showered and shaved and ready for another chance, another chance at runway modeling.  Not in Bloomingdale’s where they have placed a skull and crossbones next to my name, no this is a big fashion show at our clubhouse, a catered lunch for about, maybe more, 200 ladies—maybe one or two gentlemen—and they’ve asked me to model.

            I have everything packed that I need: Three pairs of shoes, the fourth just in case, makeup, brush, hairspray, my teeth, my hearing aids and my glasses. I’m wearing some falsies in my bra, where else, for heavens sakes, and I have on two pairs of tight panty girdles, one that covers the bulge around my waist. Please note: It covers it but certainly doesn’t take it away.

            I’m nervous and worry that my underarm deodorant will fail me. I worry that as I make a fashionable turn I might trip on my shoe tip over and fall off the runway. (In my mind UI thinks It’s at least five feet off the ground.) Then I worry I’ll be late, or I’ll not find my things, that no one will help me, maybe I’ll get stuck in my dress, or I’ll forget my cue, or I’ll have a stroke, maybe my heart will stop, worse I’ll embarrass myself and all my friends.

            My good friend Neda is modeling, too. She loves it, has no fear, thinks—knows—she looks great. She’ll be 90 in a couple of months.  “I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing,” she says to me a few hours before the show, “so I’m not sure about the jewelry.” She adds, “oh! Well!” No concern.  Whereas I’ve had my jewelry packed for two days, had written down each outfit so I’d know what I needed. 

I’m not Neda.

            I see by the clock that the time has come. Fame calls. Wish me luck.