If being pretty solves all your problems, then I must be living in some sort of fucked up world that Rod Serling couldn’t even write. Maybe one episode of the Twilight Zone where that crazy broad Janet gets plastic surgery to improve her looks but it does nothing and everyone looks like monsters or something, I don’t actually remember, it doesn’t fucking matter. Apparently being pretty is the reason I just cried my eyes out brushing my teeth so my best friend couldn’t hear me in the other room because I’m so worried about my personal life. It’s the reason I’ve had a knot in my stomach since Monday wondering if I’m going to have a job next week and what city I’m going to be living in and if I’m going to have enough money to fly back from LA to NYC. It’s why I have a slew of text messages from guys- comedians, musicians, guys twice my age, some younger, some crazy stalkers, some men who’s hearts I’ve broken, and some who have broken my heart- in my iPhone asking to hang out, not knowing if they just want to have sex with me because I’m a model or actually get to know me. It’s why I hang out with these men only to be disappointed that none of them get my Seinfeld jokes or understand who I’m talking about when I quote Pedro from The Real World, or talk about Bill Bellamy or say “YOOOOOOU ARE A BLABBERMOUTH!” (Ralph Cramden, anyone?)
I’m misunderstood, and I’m not looking for sympathy because I’m a fucking strong person like Beyonce and can handle shit, but I feel like I get judged too soon because I have blue eyes and I’m genetically tall. I’m an anomaly in the modeling world, I know this, because I’m 28, I’m considered old as shit. I lie about my age to book jobs, I have conversations with 17 year old models about Miley Cyrus (who the fuck is that anyway?) but I’m honest and I genuinely love people. I don’t do cocaine every weekend, I’m not bulimic, I’m not a stuck up diva, I can’t stand wearing heels, and I don’t think I’m better than anyone else. In fact, I hate myself probably more than you know. I’ve been on over 10 different anti-depressants and look to men for comfort and support. I’ve never not been in some sort of relationship where I needed a guy to tell me he loved me to feel good about myself. It’s sickening to me.
I spend my life being judged physically by casting directors and fashion designers. There is never an hour that goes by where I’m not worried about my skin breaking out or how many calories are in this tuna sandwich I just ate. I hate my thighs, small boobs and the left side of my face underneath my eye where I can see a feint wrinkle forming. I’ve googled botox and face lifts because I’m insecure about aging. I don’t want to be a model anymore, but it’s the only source of income I’ve relied on for the past few years and now I’m stuck here. I like being the prettiest girl at the photoshoot, I like the attention, but it is the most unfulfilling job for someone like me. I’ve never wanted to be reliant on my looks to get me through life. I was an ugly girl from Kalamazoo, I had zits on top of zits and poor posture because I hated being tall. I wore giant flannel shirts and baggy wide-leg jeans which are the most unflattering pants created. I never thought of myself as pretty, I wasn’t. I never had a boyfriend in high school, I was too scared to smile because my teeth were fucked up and my parents couldn’t afford braces until I was 16. I never said a word to anyone because every time my mouth would open a string of embarrassingly sarcastic unfunny jokes would come spewing out. I was “that” weird girl, and up until recently I never embraced it because I hated myself.
Now I’m in magazines, giant ads in Target, TV shows like 30 Rock, and I have the perfect life according to most everyone. I can get “any guy I want” and clothes look great on me. The problem with that is I’m attracted to older neurotic men, for some reason I still haven’t figured out. My parents are happily married and my neighbors never tried to molest me (at least not that I remember). My issue is that I’m jealous of “successful” women with “real” jobs. I don’t know exactly what that means but I have somewhat an idea. I want to be respected for my talents and personality, not what I look like. There’s so much more to me than my photogenic face and it frustrates me that I don’t know how to properly manifest it.
The only way I know how to cope with my frustrations is to distract myself with boys. I had a guy pick me up on his motorcycle a few days ago to eat cupcakes. It was an amazing two hours but now I’m back here wondering when the next guy is going to come along and be my prince charming that I don’t even fucking need. It’s a cycle that I don’t know how to break and it makes me resent modeling. Why didn’t I just stay in college and have a normal job like everyone one else? Why do I need to prove myself to people I don’t even care about that I’m pretty and I can be in magazines. What kind of sick self-loathing narcissistic woman am I? I don’t know. I really have no fucking clue.