The Glamorous Life

   Last Saturday was opening day for baseball-- for everyone else.  I had far more important things to tend to.  I was ready to make my debut as a supermodel for my friend Dee's store, in a fashion show sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce.
 

    I confess I was a little nervous, which is unusual for me.  Dee had told me that I'd be modeling jeans with a long sleeved chiffony top,  pink leopard knit pajama bottoms with a black camisole, and various accessories.  The day before the show I had dashed by the shop and she just held the clothes up against me, as we were both in a hurry.  I had to be at a meeting and she had to get the clothes moved to the site of the fashion show.  This seemed to me to be a poor substitute for actually trying on the clothes, but she assured me that she had plenty of pins and everything would be fine.  She told me to go to the salon, Meditation, with clean, dry hair two hours before the show.

    So Saturday morning, after the boys left for opening ceremonies, I took a leisurely shower and shaved meticulously, even the tiny group of hairs on each big toe.  I washed my hair with my fancy shampoo that pampers color treated hair, even though my color faded weeks ago and my roots are clearly visible.   I dried it, but did not style it.  I even remembered that I am anatomically unable to put on a black shirt without getting white deodorant streaks on it, so I omitted my deodorant and slathered on scented lotion to compensate.  I packed up a nice assortment of bras and panties, got dressed, and drove to Meditation.  My appointment wasn't until 11:30, but I figured it was rare that I had a chance to sit in a salon and I resolved to make the most of it in case they were serving fresh orange juice or champagne.

    They were putting out wind advisories for area lakes on the radio as I drove down the highway, rocking out to Garbage (who are playing soon in Atlanta!) but I didn't realize how truly blustery it was until I parked in the lot at the salon.  It was a bright sunny day, but the wind was ferocious.  That seemed to be a good omen.  From what I've read, photographers frequently employ a fan during photo shoots to imitate the wind-blown look, and it appeared that we'd have the look compliments of God.

    At Meditation I met Pete at the front desk, who introduced me to Sharon.  I told them I was with the fashion show, helped myself to a glass of raspberry tea, and settled onto a plush velvet couch.  I tried to act nonchalant, like I got my hair and makeup professionally done most weekends, instead of, well... never. 

    After I sat down, the door opened again, and a pregnant girl walked in.  She told Sharon she was with the fashion show, and had an 11:00 appointment.  Then they had  the timeworn pregnancy conversation, which is how I know that she was expecting her first child, she was twenty-three weeks along, and she did not know whether she was having a boy or a girl. 

    As she sat down, I heard Pete come from the back of the salon and whisper to Sharon, "After the two in the back, we can only do one more makeup, because the MAC artists have to be at SAKS in thirty minutes."

    Suddenly my day was not so relaxing anymore.  I wondered whether Mrs. Preggers had heard Pete's comment.  Then I heard a voice call out, "Next for makeup!"

    It took only a split second for me to decide who was more deserving of a professional makeup application and take the appropriate course of action.  Mrs. Preggers had the next appointment, but I had arrived before she had.  She was in the part of her pregnancy where she should be well past the nausea, yet she was not big as a house and did not appear uncomfortably swollen.  Most important, she had no other kids, and presumably was only caring for herself and her husband, and thus had ample time and money to spend on her own appearance.

    I jumped to my feet.  "I'm next!" I hollered, and I hauled ass toward the makeup chair and got in.  As I write it, this sounds callous, but at the time, and even now, to me, it felt incredibly right.

    The makeup artist, Matthew, started with my eyes, which he covered with an interesting mixture of Mulch, Humid and Mylar.  He swept my cheeks with Lovecrush and covered my lips with a thick purplish gloss called Greed.  I was pretty sure I could not replicate the look at home but I sure looked fab for the time being.  Then he sent me to Sean, the stylist, who said, "I am so glad big hair is back," as he dried and curled and sprayed.  He seemed to really like something by Redken called Vinyl Glam Shine Spray.   He must have used half the bottle on me. 

    Most people would say I have short hair.  In fact, a little over a year ago I cut it into a crew cut before my spine surgery because I knew I wouldn't be capable of dealing with it for a while.  Although it's been growing since then, it's not exactly flowing down my back.  But when Sean got through, you would have sworn I'd flown in straight from Texas, or the 80's.  My hair was that big.  It looked awesome.

   I was supposed to be at the "Model Changing Area" at 1:30, and I am always punctual.  Consequently, I was the first one there.  The changing area was actually the stock room of an oriental rug store augmented with a small mirror.  It was filled with racks of clothes, and in the corner I saw the clothes for Dee's store, and mine were grouped together with a card that said "ANNE."  My heart got a little fluttery.  I tried not to get too excited, though, and reminded myself that my main goal was not to wipe out on the catwalk and end up as fashion roadkill.

    Because I had a little privacy, I thought I'd take the opportunity to try on the clothes and see whether there were any problems.  The pink leopard lounge pants were precious, and the black camisole fit fine.  While I am not at all busty, I am quite nipply and I could see that was going to be a problem.  I dug around in my bag until I found my well-padded strapless bra.  After I put that on underneath, I admired my smooth silhouette.

    Then I tried on the chiffon top, which was also cute and trendy.  Dee had attached a note that said "Please leave bottom two buttons unbuttoned."  No problem.  I wiggled out of the lounge pants and put on the jeans.  Oops.  My underwear was showing above the jeans a good two inches all around.  I took off the jeans and my underwear, put on my pink thong, then buttoned the jeans again.  No luck.  The lacy sides of the thong showed on each hip.

    You know how you go to the mall and see girls wearing low-cut jeans, and you think to yourself, "They cannot possibly make blue jeans any lower than that?"  Apparently I was scheduled to model the jeans that took this thought as a challenge.   I removed the jeans once more, took off the pink thong, put on my G-string, and looked at myself in the portable mirror again.  I looked entirely presentable-- if I was auditioning for Slutty Soccer Mom Magazine.  Not only did the G-string show, so did my cross tattoo and the very top of my c-section scar.  If I had truly appreciated the rise on the jeans, I would not have wasted my razor on my toe hair, but would have been shaving another area entirely.

    I sighed.  I undressed and redressed again, this time without any underwear at all.  I arranged the blouse so that it covered my scar but let a little tattoo peek out.  All in all, I looked pretty good.  For a mature model.  I checked my pile of clothes on the rack.  There was also a pink tank top and a bright blue serving tray.  I wasn't sure what to do with these.

    By this point other models started to trickle in.  Several had long blond hair and two had long red hair.  All were both thin and stacked, which I have never thought naturally possible.  Nothing else about their appearances, including their tans, bright teeth, and impossibly blue eyes, made me rethink this conclusion.

    There was a list posted on the door that showed all the segments of the show and the order in which we were to appear.  I was Number 11 in Ladies, Number 5 in Sleepwear, and Number 7 in Accessories.   Then Dee appeared, waving a clipboard around.

    "Ladies, quiet down, please," she called.  "Some of you are listed on Accessories.  For this segment you'll wear jeans, bare feet, a pink tank top that should be in your pile, and you'll need a serving tray, that should also be in your pile.  As you get to the catwalk, I'll place accessories on your tray.  Hold the tray with one hand high in the air like a cocktail waitress as you walk back and forth."

    At this point I realized that the other models were merely human.  Several of them were looking at Dee with terror.  "What if I drop it?" one girl with outrageously white teeth asked.

    "Don't," Dee said firmly.

    I was cheering inwardly.  I was going to rock at this part.  I had actually waited tables and bartended in my past.  Granted, I had never carried a tray on a catwalk, and I served drinks, not accessories, and I usually wore underwear and shoes, but I was confident I could pull this off.   I decided that even if I failed at Ladies and Sleepwear, I would win Accessories in a landslide.

    We lined up and the music started.  Everything became a blur.  Before I knew it, it was my turn to hit the catwalk in my chiffony top and low jeans.  I barely had time to glance down at myself and tuck in a stray pubic hair before Dee was pushing me out, whispering, "Go on, girl.  Work it."

    So I did.  I walked to the top of the steps and posed, then turned and walked toward the right end of the catwalk.  The wind was blowing in my face so that my hair spread out behind me.  I felt sexy.  I executed my turn and headed the opposite way.  As I turned, the wind whipped my hair around, and I felt half of it catch with a glump into my MAC gloss while the rest blew into my eyes.  I had not prepared for this, but since I could not smile with the gooey hair and Greed gloss stuck on my lips, and I couldn't see with the rest of my hair in my eyes, I raised my arms and swept my hair back from my face in (what I hoped was) a grand gesture.  As I reached the left end of the catwalk, I saw Bill and the boys in the front row, clapping.  Bill mouthed, "LOVE the jeans," as I turned again and stalked toward the stairs and went into the changing area.

    When I got back to my set of clothes I was panting and sweating.  Other models were busy changing, and I hastily took off my blouse and put on the black camisole.  I guess I should have been embarrassed when I took off my jeans and revealed my bare womanhood, but to be honest I was distracted by the disconcerting smell coming from my armpits.  Then I remembered that I had purposely not worn deodorant.  I put on some underwear, and the leopard pants, and pawed furiously through my bag, looking for the Secret I knew I had not packed.

    I stood up and looked around.  Across the room I saw a bottle of Dry Idea.  I went over and said, "Anyone know whose this is?"

    As luck would have it, the woman who, with difficulty, straightened up and said, "It's mine - need some?" was, of course, Mrs. Preggers. 

    "I do," I confessed.  "I'm stinking up the whole room."

    "Help yourself," she said."  She gave no indication that she recognized me.   Apparently the Mulch, Humid and Vinyl Glam had transformed me into someone other than the woman who might have stolen her makeup appointment.   I hurried anyway.  No sense in risking a scene with a hot pregnant woman.  I know they can be vicious, having been one myself.

    "Thanks," I said in an abnormally high pitched voice as I ducked my head and swiped my pits with the Dry Idea.  I replaced the deoderant and scurried back over to my clothes.

     I heard the music change, signaling the start of the sleepwear section.  I was a lot more comfortable in the sleepwear.  I could move in the leopard print pj's without being afraid that I was going to flash the crowd.  I knew my padded bra gave me solid A cup bosoms.  And I got to walk in bare feet, as if I was going to exit the stage and crawl straight into my bed.

    So this time I really had fun.  I strutted and shook my hips to the music and did a flawless three point turn.  I headed towards my boys, and I heard Drew say, "Daddy, why is Mom wearing her pajamas outside in front of all these people?"

    What was most gratifying was that Bill was IGNORING Drew and had his eyes fixed on me.  He had a silly grin on his face.  I've seen that look before, when he gets to the part in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue where there's a model wearing a tiny bikini bottom and some sand.  I felt like a goddess.  Bill whistled.  For a split second I thought about turning and shaking my leopard clad booty in his face.  It was a rare instance in which my practical side won out.  First,  I was afraid that movement might injure my newly fused spine, and second, I didn't want to set a bad example for the boys.  So instead I tried the sexy pout as I posed before Bill, and this time he didn't laugh.  He yelled, "You go, girl," and waved his fist in the air.  Finn looked at him like he was completely crazy. 

    This time I had to change quickly for the Accessories segment.  I dashed back to my clothes and stripped off the smelly black cami, put on the pink tank, took off my lounge pants and underwear and put the jeans on again, grabbed my tray and went back to the entrance to the catwalk.  Dee was there and placed a pair of stilettos on the tray as I went on. 

    This time I felt confident. I pulled the tank up on the right just enough to show my tattoo.   I held the tray high with my left hand as I pranced down the right side of the catwalk.  At the end, I turned and transferred the tray to the other hand.  This time I did a little skip as I went down the left side.  The tray held steady and the shoes never moved.  This time Bill stood up and yelled and clapped.  Finn and Drew joined in, while Porter watched with big eyes.  As I prepared to exit, I handed my tray to the man waiting to escort me down the stairs, and I turned to face the crowd again.  I blew kisses with both hands.  Then my usually shy husband whistled loudly and shouted,  "Sexy Mama!" as I made my final exit.

    I got dressed into my regular clothes, and met Bill and the boys by the car.  Bill hugged me.  "That was hot!" he whispered in my ear.   "How 'bout you get those pink pants and you and me go take a nap?"

    "Well, I had to leave the pants, honey," I said.  "But we don't really need those, now, do we?"

    "Now that I think about it, they might just get in the way of a good nap," he said.

    So we all got in the car and drove home.  On the way, Bill said, "Boys, your mom is sure a fine looking specimen."  I smiled and patted his thigh.

    "Yep, I thought for sure I'd rather spend the day at the baseball field than at a fashion show, but I guess I didn't know how sexy you were going to be,"  he continued.

    "I would rather be at the baseball field," Finn remarked.

    "Not me," said Porter.  "I'd rather be playing with my duct tape."

    "Well, I appreciate you coming to see me, honey," I told Bill.

    "Mom, can y'all stop making those googly eyes at each other?  It makes me sick," Drew said.

    "No, we can't," Bill said.  "When we get home, you boys need to clean up the basement while your mother and I take a nap.  Do you understand?"

    "Yes, sir," three voices whispered meekly.

    And just like that, my career as a supermodel was over.