I am only leaving this story up for two days so the people who check my journal regularly will see it. There's too many stigmas associated with this profession I am discussing. And I should know. I make fun of it on a regualr basis.
I have done some things in my life. I have jumped out of an airplane with another person strapped to my back. I have sat on the line of a World Championship race for which I trained nearly seven years; the last race I ever rowed (and won, thank you very much). I have made eye contact with beautiful women and held it to the point where the were forced to look away (anyone who has ever done this can tell you it is one of the most intense, gut-wrenching experiences ever). I have called a girl I was obsessed with for months and asked her out on a date; a true stomach turner.
I have done all these things, but none of them prepared me for what I did today. Today was my first, and most likely only, foray into runway modeling.
A year ago, I worked for a production company in Providence, RI, and one of our big jobs was to record "The Grand Bridal Fashion Show;" an event thrown by the a magazine who has apparently won some big national awards on the same level as Vouge and Elle. Blah blah blah.
Long story short. I was a camerman at the show, and later was asked to do the runway.
"Does it pay?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll do it."
I won't lie. Part of me wanted to do it becuase it's a pretty crazy thing I'd never done before, and probably wouldn't have a chance to do again. A lot of people go to the show, but it's mostly for the women; Not so much pressure on them men.
Did I mention that I am not a model, have never tried to be a model, never wanted to be a model and was suddenly petrified of the idea of having to go on stage and look like I am "having a good time?" What the fuck was I thinking!?
A day before the show, I feel like a seventh-grader who's supposed to give an speech at Congress. Vomiting does not seem beyond the realm of possibility. In fact, it occurs to me if I puke right before I go out, they'll HAVE to keep me off stage.
And you know what really helps me calm down and relax? Smoking hot females. Yeah. Great. Female models chill me out like melatonin. Christ.
I'm not one to start my day off with a drink, but instead of orange juice, I have a beer as well as a gin and tonic. Nerves . . . losing . . . control. I debate eating some of the brightly colored dyed-blue wedding cakes on display, so at least if I puke, it will be an attractive color. Ugh.
It's clear the other guys have never done this sort of thing before. So at least I won't go down with this ship on my own. I call my roomate, who is earning some money on the side, trying to support his writing career, by modeling. I leave a message telling him I'm freakin' out here. I know he's gonna laugh, but he's never done runway stuff before either, so he'll not be too helpful.
The women, though, are very professional. Watching a woman do a really good job on the runway is something I never appreciated before, but when they've got it, it's impressive. Of the 30 women a lot of them have it, which threatens to make the men's newbishness all the more apparent.
What could go wrong? There's a lip between the stage and the catwalk! We'll trip! There's about 600 people out there! We'll fuck it up for all of them!
I do not want to be here. I want to be somewhere where no one's looking and no one gives a fuck if I smile or don't.
But it's too late now.
So we stand on the edge of the stage and this woman sends us out one by one to the firing squad.
When I rowed in college, races lasted about six minutes, 30 seconds of which I would remember. I remember maybe one second of being on stage. And it wasn't too bad.
We get off, and we have about five minutes to change before the we go up again. But before I get my jacket off, they start yelling at us to get back out there. Jesus, lady,I still have to change my shirt before I can put on my other vest, tie and jac-
"RUN! HURRY!"
They are really fucking yelling at us to get back out there. Growing-panic-in-their-voices kind of yelling. A woman comes back to check on us, sees our state of not-readiness, and utters "Oh My God."
I fuck up the changing, and they're still fucking screaming at us and you would think the stage was empty at this point, but we get in line with about 30 seconds to spare and I get an odd feeling in my mouth. It's like an old friend - an old friend who I got in a fight with and never wanted to see again.
I have cottonmouth.
Are you fucking kidding me? I have cotton mouth. This is fucking crazy. I haven't had this feeling since my freshman year races. The woman in charge isn't helping.
"RELAX! HAVE FUN! ENJOY YOURSELF!"
AHHHHHHHHH!!!
As I literally tremble on stage, still with the big smile, I know that I will never want to do this again.
The show went fine. We did better the rest of tyhe day. The women applauded. Enough people told me I did well that I was willing to accept that we didn't fuck everything up.
The woman running the show told me later that it was agreed I was the top guy, becuase I had character and class. I stared at her, knowing something else was coming.
"So are you doing the show next year."
"Oh, I don't think I'll be around."
Fucking A right I won't.
I have done some things in my life. I have jumped out of an airplane with another person strapped to my back. I have sat on the line of a World Championship race for which I trained nearly seven years; the last race I ever rowed (and won, thank you very much). I have made eye contact with beautiful women and held it to the point where the were forced to look away (anyone who has ever done this can tell you it is one of the most intense, gut-wrenching experiences ever). I have called a girl I was obsessed with for months and asked her out on a date; a true stomach turner.
I have done all these things, but none of them prepared me for what I did today. Today was my first, and most likely only, foray into runway modeling.
A year ago, I worked for a production company in Providence, RI, and one of our big jobs was to record "The Grand Bridal Fashion Show;" an event thrown by the a magazine who has apparently won some big national awards on the same level as Vouge and Elle. Blah blah blah.
Long story short. I was a camerman at the show, and later was asked to do the runway.
"Does it pay?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll do it."
I won't lie. Part of me wanted to do it becuase it's a pretty crazy thing I'd never done before, and probably wouldn't have a chance to do again. A lot of people go to the show, but it's mostly for the women; Not so much pressure on them men.
Did I mention that I am not a model, have never tried to be a model, never wanted to be a model and was suddenly petrified of the idea of having to go on stage and look like I am "having a good time?" What the fuck was I thinking!?
A day before the show, I feel like a seventh-grader who's supposed to give an speech at Congress. Vomiting does not seem beyond the realm of possibility. In fact, it occurs to me if I puke right before I go out, they'll HAVE to keep me off stage.
And you know what really helps me calm down and relax? Smoking hot females. Yeah. Great. Female models chill me out like melatonin. Christ.
I'm not one to start my day off with a drink, but instead of orange juice, I have a beer as well as a gin and tonic. Nerves . . . losing . . . control. I debate eating some of the brightly colored dyed-blue wedding cakes on display, so at least if I puke, it will be an attractive color. Ugh.
It's clear the other guys have never done this sort of thing before. So at least I won't go down with this ship on my own. I call my roomate, who is earning some money on the side, trying to support his writing career, by modeling. I leave a message telling him I'm freakin' out here. I know he's gonna laugh, but he's never done runway stuff before either, so he'll not be too helpful.
The women, though, are very professional. Watching a woman do a really good job on the runway is something I never appreciated before, but when they've got it, it's impressive. Of the 30 women a lot of them have it, which threatens to make the men's newbishness all the more apparent.
What could go wrong? There's a lip between the stage and the catwalk! We'll trip! There's about 600 people out there! We'll fuck it up for all of them!
I do not want to be here. I want to be somewhere where no one's looking and no one gives a fuck if I smile or don't.
But it's too late now.
So we stand on the edge of the stage and this woman sends us out one by one to the firing squad.
When I rowed in college, races lasted about six minutes, 30 seconds of which I would remember. I remember maybe one second of being on stage. And it wasn't too bad.
We get off, and we have about five minutes to change before the we go up again. But before I get my jacket off, they start yelling at us to get back out there. Jesus, lady,I still have to change my shirt before I can put on my other vest, tie and jac-
"RUN! HURRY!"
They are really fucking yelling at us to get back out there. Growing-panic-in-their-voices kind of yelling. A woman comes back to check on us, sees our state of not-readiness, and utters "Oh My God."
I fuck up the changing, and they're still fucking screaming at us and you would think the stage was empty at this point, but we get in line with about 30 seconds to spare and I get an odd feeling in my mouth. It's like an old friend - an old friend who I got in a fight with and never wanted to see again.
I have cottonmouth.
Are you fucking kidding me? I have cotton mouth. This is fucking crazy. I haven't had this feeling since my freshman year races. The woman in charge isn't helping.
"RELAX! HAVE FUN! ENJOY YOURSELF!"
AHHHHHHHHH!!!
As I literally tremble on stage, still with the big smile, I know that I will never want to do this again.
The show went fine. We did better the rest of tyhe day. The women applauded. Enough people told me I did well that I was willing to accept that we didn't fuck everything up.
The woman running the show told me later that it was agreed I was the top guy, becuase I had character and class. I stared at her, knowing something else was coming.
"So are you doing the show next year."
"Oh, I don't think I'll be around."
Fucking A right I won't.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
The only "modeling" i've done was for a local pin up mag, and after two tequila shots there was no pressure at all. Congrats though for getting through it!
[Edited on Feb 03, 2004 10:35AM]