Fit Modeling & Lisa

I booked a job as a fit model, their normal model was out of town or something so I replaced her for the day. Fit modeling is comparable to showroom work, I call it the office job of modeling. It pays well but it is not glamorous by any means. You wear the first samples of clothing which usually look like shit and are ill fitting. 5-10 people stare at you, take measurements, write on the clothes with chalk, and put a million safety pins in the garment. I happened to be “smaller” than their normal model, meaning my shoulder length was 1 inch shorter, thus fucking everything up. A woman in her 50s wearing a dark blue pants suit and bright yellow neon keds walks in. She looks like she’s from Dallas, I don’t know why Dallas but that’s what I assume. Her slight southern accent, bleach blonde hair and freckles from years of being in sun makes me think Texas.

“I like her more than Lisa, look how that seam fits better on her shoulder. Mary, can you change all our samples to have a 14 inch shoulder length instead of 15? We need to alter our size smalls to fit skinnier girls.”

Did my shoulders just completely change the entire seam length for the whole collection? Are my shoulders going to be famous? What have I done? Did I just indirectly fire Lisa? Who the fuck is Lisa anyway? I’ll gladly take her $300 an hour for having skinny shoulders. They said Lisa was a swimmer so her shoulders were very broad. I work out maybe once a week and have genetically narrow shoulders, I guess I should be rewarded for that? I try on a dress, it fits great until it hits my thighs. I instantly regret eating that fried green tea ice cream in Bass Lake the day before. My hips are average size, and I do have a bit of an ass, I’m a fucking woman for fuck’s sake. I always get nervous when I try on sample size pants because I know they are going to be a little tight. I will wear the shit out of dresses because my flat chest, small waist, and narrow shoulders make me look 16. I like to think I’m a bit of an “LA face Oakland booty” type of model.

I change into an oversize teal collared shirt and a leather mini skirt. I feel like I look ridiculous. Dallas swivels around in her chair and stares at me before squinting and making a disgusted face.

“We don’t need this, it looks cheap, look at that seam. This looks like something off of 39th street. I can see a girl wearing this to a sweet sixteen party or something.”

I stand there smiling uncomfortably. I’m wearing heels that hurt more than standing on jagged rocks covered in heroin needles. I’d almost rather give in to buttsex than wear those things for a minute longer. I stumble back into the closet and throw the shoes off. I put on some pants and “forget” to put the shoes back on. I walk back out to the design room.

“What is that fabric? Is that wool? This is the summer collection right? Why on earth would we do wool?”

She continues babbling as I drift off into Melissa land, thinking about how tired I am from the redeye flight I just got off of 6 hours prior. I think about what I’m going to eat for lunch and if I should buy ice cream on the way home. I think about where I’m going to be living in a few weeks because I have to be out of my apartment soon, and whether or not moving to LA is a good idea. I start to miss my sister and best friends and the guy I was making out with in California while I was there for 5 days on vacation. I come up with a plan on how I’m going to survive in LA, what agency I could maybe sign with, the possible jobs I could have there instead of NY, how nice it would be to drive to Trader Joe’s again and have a yard. I try to remember when the new Liars album comes out and if I should buy tickets to their show on the 20th. I start to like the old lady’s neon shoes and contemplate buying more neon clothes but feel like I would get sick of them fast because I tend to only wear black, white, and jeans. I think of a few jokes I want to tweet and an idea for a sketch for my UCB class. I remember that my feet really hurt from the size 7 shoes I just had to squeeze in. Dallas is still talking…

“So let’s keep this style exactly how it is. I have a 1:30 meeting, I have to leave.”

I snap out of my daydream and change back into my clothes. I fill out my voucher and have an assistant sign it. She thanks me for coming and I thank her for having me. I walk 5 blocks to a last minute casting, I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and didn’t bring heels with me. I walk into the showroom and immediately an attractive guy asks my height.

Him: “How tall are you?”

Me: “I’m 5’9, sorry, just came from a job and I don’t have heels with me.”

He asks me to try on pants.

Him: “A little tight, no?” He says to a woman.

She says something in a language I don’t understand.

Him: “What other lookbooks have you done?”

Me: “Umm, Missoni…”

Him: “Ok thanks for coming.”

He hands me my iPad and I go back behind the curtain to change into my clothes. I say thank you and leave. I feel like crying. I start to cry. I’m probably just exhausted from only two hours of sleep and not eating properly. I walk home, get into my building, see two dozens roses and think “wow that’s nice.” My doorman says the roses are for me. I tell him to get the fuck outta town, look at the card, and yep, they’re for me.

Fashion Week (Month) & Mental Breakdowns

Fashion week: F/W12 or A/W12, whatever, Fall and Autumn are the same fucking thing. I only had 2 mental breakdowns this season, that’s quite a feat for me. I’m currently flying to Miami drinking a bloody mary and sitting next to the human equivalent of Gollum. This asshole has been hacking up what could only be actual lungs since I’ve boarded this flying piece of tin. I’m listening to music trying to drown out the horror. Some people have no shame OR respect for anyone but themselves. I’m also watching Tyler Perry’s Whitney Houston’s funeral as I stuff these warm cashews down my throat. Everyone is just ridiculous.

This season I only did two shows for fashion week, but worked in showrooms everyday, which I prefer, they pay you ACTUAL money, as opposed to “trade” which never fits or makes its way to your agency. The first show I did was at the Plaza Hotel, you know, where that heartthrob Macaulay Culkin stayed when his family left his ass at the airport. 12 girls were in the show but only 11 showed up, and we had to change in a closet that had to be the size of the dungeon that Austrian Fritzl chick was kept in for 24 years. My shoes were too big, as usual, because size 8 is so rare (I’m being sarcastic, can you tell?) so my walk down the runway was like a drunk Jersey shore slut after popping mad bottles at the club, ugh. I did have 3 mini-cupcakes! Lana Del Rey’s new album was on a loop, so I couldn’t tell if I was actually enjoying myself or just happy familiar music was playing.

For showroom Karl Lagerfeld was one of my main clients. I worked with a Russian girl from my agency, and an 18 year old new model from Compton. Like, straight outta Compton, she was a hood rat but proud of it. Her weaves kept coming loose from her head. Apparently Indian hair is where it’s at, but very scarce in Southern California, which is why she plans on getting a quality weave after she gets paid. Good plan. Karl’s line was beautiful. Look at me saying “Karl” like I know the motherfucker. I heard he’s quite the pushover of a designer but the man knows how to dress a lady. Sample size is usually a 0 or 2 in the US. Italian size 2 is a 40, which is what I wear. All the samples said 40 but were made for 12 year olds. The way I put on his leather pants is comparable to watching a praying mantis die.

I had multiple conversations with the Russian where I had NO IDEA what she was saying, yet nodding at everything:

“They think I’m pregnant because I put on weight over the holiday, but I tell them I have many pregnancy tests at home and I am just hungry.”
Wait, what? You keep pregnancy tests at home just in case?

“My boyfriend never visit how could I be pregnant? I don’t take pill but I don’t had period in while, so maybe I am.”
Was that a sentence?

She’s always asking me for things too,
“I am sleepy can you hand me my sweater and water bottle and iPad I no want to get up.”
Ok, sure I guess?

After one of my runway shows I met a friend for drinks. My makeup was slutified and my hair was teased into a bees nest but I was so delirious I couldn’t care less. I like having friends who are confident. I feel inferior to most of my pals because I’m a model, and no matter how hard I work at my job there’s no progression to becoming a better model. In fact it’s the opposite! The older you get the less desirable you become, which is a chief motivator for finding a more copacetic and fulfilling career for myself. I love talking with people who see more potential in myself than I tend to. It’s a reassurance that I don’t have to be just the tall skinny pretty girl forever and I have talents that don’t involve wearing size 0 leather Lagerfeld pants. My ass did look like a white J. Lo in them though, HOLLA.

My month of being grouped into the semi-normal working society of NYC has come to an end, for now, but it gets me to a place where I feel comfortable being busy. I like myself more when my mind is occupied. I make more of an effort to talk to friends and I feel physically adequate. I would love that feeling to continue during the slower months of sporadic castings and occasional jobs, but I focus most of my energy on worrying. There’s only so much Zoloft I can take before realizing it’s my own self who needs a creative outlet to the mind numbing world of being a walking mannequin.

Day 3 of 20

Yesterday I was working in the showroom with a girl who was 5’10″ and weighed no more than 100 pounds. She was fresh out of high school from Florida but spoke German as well. I had to refrain from making Holocaust jokes, it was just too easy. Her skin was so transparent I could see all 206 of her bones. She didn’t look a day over 93. Before the first client arrived the waiter offered us breakfast- mini blueberry muffins, croissants, bagels, etc. I took a muffin and ate half of it. Betty Bulimia kindly rejected his offer, her excuse was that she doesn’t eat processed foods. Are you shitting me? How awful is your life?

Myself and the other 2 models quickly change in and out of clothes to show the flaming gay lead fashion director from a well-known department store. I stumble out in heels that are 2 sizes too large and a dress that is pinned in 5 places to compensate for my size 32B boobs but size 4 hips. I stop in front of the pristine white table that has 6 well dressed people seated at it, all of which are wearing far too much makeup (even the men) and expensive Chanel watches. There’s a plate of mini-cheesecake squares, macaroons, and brownies in the middle of the table that of course has not been touched. I walk over to the table like I love my life and the dress I’m wearing. I’ve done this hundreds of times but still don’t know where to place my gaze. I uncomfortably make eye contact with each person, awaiting their reaction of the garment I’m wearing. Silence…

“She looks great, but a normal person would look hideous in this!”
“What happens when someone with breasts wears this?”
“What’s going on with the seams?”
“Is this bra friendly?”
“Look at how its bunching at her hips.”

I stand there with a smile and give them a fake laugh when they mention how small my chest is. They ask me if I would wear the dress. I tell them “of course! it’s one of my favorite from the collection!” yeah right, I can’t exhale and the material is as soft as my pubic hair after 2 days of not shaving. I would probably be more comfortable in the room Alex from A Clockwork Orange was locked into with his eyes pinned open watching horribly offensive videos. I turn around and walk back into the closet. Repeat.

This is my life for the whole month of August. I am a walking dartboard in the fashion world for criticism of designers . I sometimes wonder why they don’t put the clothes on a mannequin and just roll it out to the clients. It’s baffling that a job like this exists.

9-5

It’s market month again, which means I get to amass myself in with the real employees of NYC. I wake up before 7am to catch the LIRR into Penn Station. I stand in line behind the same tall mid-20′s guy with the futuristic Bose headphones I see every morning at Starbucks, waiting for my grande chai latte with soy milk and 1 shot of espresso. I wait for the uptown A,C, or E subway to transport me into Bryant Park, standing far behind the yellow line because I’m positive one day a sociopath disguised as a businessman will lose his mind and start shoving strangers into the subway tracks. I embed myself into the already congested and sweaty subway car not caring who I bump into because it doesn’t matter, I’m a young cute girl, not a repulsive obese homeless man, and no one minds standing next to me.

I’m dressed up like a barbie for 8 hours, the same collection over and over again, presenting each outfit to the buyers from stores like Saks Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf Goodman.

“That’s SO cute! Wow, you look divine! Oh wow, adorable! Ugh, this is just STUNNING!”

Barf. I stand there with a naive gaze, occasionally smiling to let the clients know I’m at least pretending to look interested. I do a twirl and walk balk into my closet with another model wearing just a strapless bra and thong changing into the next look. This goes on for 2 hours until the next appointment. In between each client, we talk about our boyfriends, food, a cute dress we bought from H&M, and what we really want to do with our lives. The idea of being a model at 30 is atrocious.

I was out drinking with a few people last weekend, a guy I’d just met asked me what I do. “Umm, well, I’m a model…” I said in a diffident voice. He said he’s a professor at UCLA. Great. I feel promptly inferior. We talk about fashion and I tell him a few designers I’ve worked for that he’s never heard of. End of conversation. Later in the night I mention I used to take improv and sketch classes at the UCB theater in LA. “Oh, wow the Upright Citizens Brigade? I love that place.” Finally, I’m recognized as something more than a model, I have a brain, interests, I can form sentences, and have an intelligent conversation with a stranger. Is everyone really as judgmental as I am? I hope not.

Half Bulimic

I’d say 3 times is the amount of pre-runway show vomits I’ve heard. The first time I was genuinely concerned for the haggard 5’11″ 17 year old with a French accent. “Oh my god are you ok? Can I get you some water?” “Nope.” As she rinsed out her mouth and wiped the mascara from underneath her teary eyes. “Oh…right…” I said to myself. I felt like an idiot for not realizing what was going on, then left the restroom and made my way to the snack table. Mini cupcakes from Magnolia!

My agent called me in to take polaroids (the fact that they still use this term is slightly annoying) to send to a client in Korea. I put on my swimsuit and heels and prance around my agency half naked. We go up to the roof for better lighting and he snaps off about 20 photos. We head back down to show them to the owner, and she tells me to come talk to her. I sashay over to her in my bikini and heels and she asks if I’ve been working out. “Yes of course, 3-4 times a week” which is a complete lie, I’m a lazy piece of shit. “Your thighs are getting thick.” Wow, I just got burned by a 50-something year old woman. All I wanted to say was “Well your vagina is probably prolapsing.” I act disconcerted and tell them I’ll work on it.

Fast forward to a week later and I’m eating Doritos at 4am. I’m an emotional eater, but who the fuck isnt’? If I weren’t 5’9″ I’m convinced I would be a fat piece of shit. The only thing that keeps me skinny is purely egocentric reasoning: guys don’t like fat chicks. I’m preposterously insecure and relish from being the prettiest & skinniest girl in the room. The idea of being a model is much more awesome than actually having the job. The paychecks are nice too, I’ll admit, but being called a model is fulfilling some sick self-envisage I had when I was in elementary school being made fun of for being the ugly tall girl with awful teeth who couldn’t afford braces. The thought of the person who is the “Look at me now bitch!” type makes me want to vomit. I think I’ve become a fraction of that person, unfortunately, but I still take anti-depressants and call myself a fat piece of shit. I thought about puking up those Doritos but being half bulimic (the half that stuffs their face with junk food) is easier than shoving a toothbrush down your throat. Besides, the acids in your stomach cause your teeth to rot over time, who wants that?

“Nothing tastes as good as being skinny.” -Kate Moss