And It All Falls Around My Tush

           When I walked for the Ladies of Mercedes, I don't believe my walk was that bad. It tends to be on the minimalist side, and maybe the way I hold myself makes it slightly gawky, mainly because I was given the most instruction by the great Giambattista Valli, who prefers a very unobtrusive walk so as not to distract from his clothes. I got the right things down, at the end I put my weight on my right side, then shifted to the left, which made it easy for me to turn. I didn't trip. When they asked me to change something about my walk, I did.

            Kara walked for them and then the Head of the Mercedes Ladies took out a long, yellow tape measurer, which looped in her hands like a lasso.

            I actually didn't feel apprehensive. I felt great. And this part of a runway casting is the one thing you can't do much about now that you've gotten to where you are. What is is what is.

           She lassoed my waist expertly and they all deemed it chiquita, tiny.

           She looped it around the widest part of my hips. Then she paused, adjusted the tape and tried again. She gave me a nonplussed look that suggested all was not right here.

           'Put your legs together,' one of the ladies said.

           I did so, my shoes rubbing squeakily.

          They tried again. After this turn the Head looked at me and shook her cabesa. One of the Ladies said in English, 'I just don't see it. Turn around.'

           I did.

           Behind me, I heard a collective (and resonant) 'ahhHHhhh' of a group of women who finally understood the punch line to a joke.

           The same lady said in English, 'oh. Now I see it.'

I turned around to catch them all nodding at eachother in grave agreement. Then they began to speak in rapid-fire Spanish. The Head Merced shot out various names and the rest of the group shook their heads sorrowfully at each title. Eventually I realized that she was going through designers that had spaces in shows and the rest of the women were expressing their doubt that I could walk in them. Something had gone horribly wrong.

           Kara was measured too, and though they chatted with her like old friends and patted her sweetly, when the tape encircled her waist, the same thing happened. Here they were flabbergasted. In the end they wished us a quick goodnight (which is never a positive sign) and receded back into the back rooms of their beautifully shadowed, enshrouded spartan apartment, like three Fates after sniping the life chords of our Mercedes careers.

         We stood to go. I turned to Kara and voiced the suspicion that was on my mind.

          'It was my tush, wasn't it?'

          'Huh?'

          'Oh. It was my butt, wasn't it?'

          'Uh huh. Mine too.' She looked absolutely broken.
          If one of us had gotten the job right then, our taxi ride home would have been exceedingly awkward. As it were, we were able to commiserate and became friendly.

I began to feel horrible for Kara. She had come to Mexico City after being assured she would walk in almost all the shows. Now, she said, she'd be ridiculously lucky to land one. She knew the Head of Mercedes personally, and there had been a lot of expectation.

         The taxi driver starts laughing and for a second we think he is laughing at us and out large caboose conundrums. But he is pointing at two women walking down the street.

          'Prostitutes!' He says, cackling.

          We both snort at him. It dawns on me that he was trying to lighten the mood by distracting us with sights from the town, because seconds later he says, 'Restaurante: es good!' And then: 'muy traffico, todos muy traffico!' He succeeded in distracting us, for moments at least, dispute his non-sequitur stratagem.

          It took me about a night to get over the ordeal. You get to a certain point where you realize that modeling is all, all about subjectivity and clashing opinions on what defines "beauty". At first it kills; when someone thinks you are sub par: not beautiful enough for them or their cause. But you get about four fails to every success and eventually you gain a tougher skin. What modeling has given me is a sort of skewed sense of self. I know I am fine, for me, for my standards. I have a pillar inside me, the string that pulls me up straight, attached to the stars. It would take a whole lot for my sense of self to be cut or dismantled.

          At the same time, it is incredibly difficult to not feel that personal devastation when someone says, candidly, business-like, that you are not up to scruff. People tend to say their thoughts with such assertion: you have to in this business; the fashion industry is so subjective with so many counter opinions you must make your own ideas count.

         This makes sense, but as a result, to be a model you need to have a good amount of self confidence, while, at the same time, be able to have a realistic vision of yourself. It is ridiculously tricky for girls to keep this up, so you find many models from both categories. Some can not find a fault in themselves, and some can only see the faults. The former attitude is a difficult one to work with professionally, while the latter is horrifically unhealthy and a danger to your mental and physical health. In this business, however, I would deign to say that being overly confident is a lot more beneficial to a girl, especially because self confidence has a way of rubbing off on people. In the business of life however, I guess it depends!                       

                Wonderfully enough, I have had the great fortune to work with many, many women who have a beautiful outlook on their life and their jobs.

                On a side note, I met the Kara at a casting later on and she was very excited to say she had made a couple of Mercedes shows because they had especially wanted her for them. Maybe I never had a chance, but it was a bit of a slight slug to the stomach again. But in the long run of things I was very happy for her. Coming in especially for Mercedes, (brought by the Ladies themselves) and not doing one show, would be crushing.

                I guess I kind of went off on a tangent but, needless to say, I've recovered from my Mercedes embarrassment. It's difficult to think that you might be a couple centimeters too big for something when you know that you are healthy by your own, and most of the industry's standards, but runway is a different beast.

               

               Who knows? Someday my backside will become an asset.

               Did you get that?

I hope so because I think it's punny and I have to tell that joke everytime I tell that story (which is quite a lot, because by now I've had time to realize my failure is funny)