That time I was a model

I thought about starting this post with some bit about how I was officially too famous to acknowledge you all, but then I remembered that I’m not actually famous (yet), so alienating the few fans I have is probably not the best career strategy.

Plus you know I love you all. Truly. Deeply. Madly. And in other Savage Garden-esque ways.


So the photo shoot went well! I arrived around 9:30 in the morning and was quickly ushered into hair and makeup. (Le sigh… the trialsome life of a model!) I actually know a couple of people who work at the magazine from back in my own journalism days, so it was nice to say hi (even with the added awkwardness of having someone fiddle with my hair while we caught up…like I said, trialsome).

Next I got to pick out a dress (trust me when I say it’s freaking adorable…I wanted to steal it…but I didn’t…because it’s wrong to steal…but mostly because they were watching me like a hawk and I never would have gotten away with it because I was also wearing SUPER awesome shoes that were way too high to run away in…but also, you know, cuz it’s wrong…).

The stylist kept asking me which dress and shoes I wanted, which just made me really uncomfortable for some reason. I kept flailing my arms in this weird shrugging motion and being like, “Um, I don’t know! *giggle* Um…which do you like?” You would think I had never dressed myself before in my life.

But come on! This is going to be in a national magazine! Loads of people are going to see it! People who have known me at all stages of life! Friends! Enemies! Old classmates and co-workers! Perfect strangers! I canNOT be trusted to pick out my own shoes.

Finally, I was dressed. With a final makeup touch-up (including putting foundation on my legs) and one last hair fluff, we were off to the shoot location. (I had another girl with me, so I didn’t have to be entirely self-conscious.)

It was a little awkward at first, but still pretty fun. After getting fussed over for two hours, my new goal is to be rich enough to hire someone whose only job is to brush my bangs out of my eyes. It was certainly handy to have.

I do feel a little bad for the 100 or so tourists who thought we were famous because we were getting our pictures taken, and therefore took pictures of us themselves. Later analysis will surely bring on some disappointment. Sorry, not famous. Just me.

Without giving too much away, we had to stand in a public space and look like we were having a grand ol’ time. Which is more difficult than it sounds in 5-inch heels. The photographer reeeeally wanted to get a photo with one of us popping our foot up, and because the other girl had apparently never worn heels before, I was the only one who could manage it. He kept yelling things like, “Ok, one, two, three! Now HOLD it!”

I couldn’t hold it. Five. Inch. Heels. I am not a machine.

But he seemed satisfied at the end of the hour and a half. (Photo shoots take a mad long time, yo. I can only imagine how long these things go on for actual models and celebrities.)

But then we were done and it was back to real life. Which, honestly, I was fine with. It was cold, my feet hurt, and I was a bit late for work. But, all in all, a really cool experience. I’ll be in the January issue, so watch for it mid-December sometime. Hopefully it will be online somewhere so I can post pics for those of you who don’t get American Glamour. (Looking at you, random European and Australian readership! I got you.)

The rest of the day went well, albeit less glamorously. (See what I did there?) Work was fine, and the hubster and I had a lovely dinner, after which we met up with my buddy Erin to go see Kevin’s show. Laughs were had. (Erin was actually crying with laughter at one point…though it may have been less to do with the show and more to do with the hilarious reaction a guy sitting behind us had at one point…to-may-to, to-mah-to.)

Today, I’m back to plain old me. Actually, probably even more run-down than regular me. My feet (and back..and hips…damn 5-inch heels) still hurt, I overslept so I’m wearing a speck of makeup, and my outfit was thrown together in about 30 seconds. My hair, oddly enough, still looks pretty fab. Now if only I could find someone to brush these flyaways out of my face…