My First Time Ever

Oh all you lurkers-get your head out of the gutter! (I know who you are!). Last week I worked a charity event. It entailed me helping models dress for a runway show. This was a bigger deal than I thought. Volunteers were asked to wear comfy clothing, being that we're dressing models, we should not be in stiletto heels hobbling around. Ok cool-I wore a long sleeve, jeans, and Converse. I figured there'd be a back entrance. NOPE. Walked the damn red carpet. So I'm not sure what was worse-the fact that I thought I looked like a slob, or the fact that when I walked, all the paparazzi put their cameras down and the lights went out. Fabulous.

The main concept of being a dresser for a model is that they can't dress themselves. Literally. With their hair and make-up all done up, they can't risk getting foundation or lipstick on the collar of their tops and whatnot. This is what they didn't tell us about dressing models-if you have kids, you're going to be a pro at it. Try putting a top on a model when she's trying to put on earrings. I wanted to yank her arms out. This was after I wanted to throw up. Models are deathly skinny. You don't realize just how skinny until you're standing two inches away. You don't realize just how skinny until your nose is half a centimeter from their knees because you're trying to tie their shoelaces for them. How skinny was model? My model's first outfit included silver hotpants. No joke. And a silver jacket that barely covered her non-existent assets.

These models are 6 feet tall. Without shoes. And their calves are the size of my wrists. I wanted to throw up. But I'm smarter than that. That and I just bought some Ben & Jerry Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream.