A friend of mine has the best job ever. Not because it pays well, or has the greatest hours. No, some jobs come with better benefits than money or reasonable work hours. She helps book models for a major, upscale, clothing store’s print ads.
I want this job more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my entire life. I have zero qualifications, and no background that would give me entry into a field like this, but I would be willing to learn (or trade my first-born child) if someone would just give me the opportunity.
“The job isn’t as glamorous as you might think,” she claimed, over a chicken Caesar salad one day.
“I think you misunderstand my motives. I could give a rat’s rectum about glamour.” I speared my own chunk of chicken salad. “For someone like me who grew up surrounded by cheerleaders and beauty queens there could be no greater karmic justice.”
I munched my salad and imagined the possibilities. Swimsuit season would be my crowning glory. If I close my eyes, I can see it as clear as day and a warm feeling rises up from my chest. This is my true calling.
When the size zeros paraded in, with their model white smiles plastered on their faces, I would glare at them over the top of my glasses, then wrinkle my nose as if I’d just smelled something rancid on them.
“She’s too thin,” I would declare. “No one finds early prison camp victim sexy anymore. Pick up a fork sweetie and come back in a year or two when you’ve concealed your ribcage with some meat.”
Sweet, sweet justice.
I could start a modeling revolution! What twiggy brought to modeling in the sixties and Kate Moss perpetuated in the Nineties, I could undo with one shake of my head. Models everywhere would be scrambling for the nearest IHOP to pack on a few pounds for their next modeling assignment.
Breasts, hips, and butts would be back in fashion. Zaftig, Botticelli bodies would be the next IT thing. Suddenly stores would be stocking real sizes (come on why do you think the only thing left on the clearance rack is extra small) instead of unrealistic Barbie doll sizes.
Anyone woman who wears more than a single digit would rejoice to open her favorite catalog, or Sunday circular, and find a normal sized woman in a swimsuit. Then you’d know that the “ruching” around the equator really doesn’t fool anyone, and that the suit that looked sexy on the size zero, makes anyone who has ever eaten a Big Mac Meal deal, look like a sea lion with a glandular disorder.
Could you imagine real truth in advertising? I can and it makes me smile.
With real truth in advertising, all print ads would be required to come with the disclaimer, “Model shown is wearing a size two, hasn’t eaten since she was a fetus, and has had so much airbrushing done in this photo that this isn’t even her real skin color anymore.”
Now if that were printed on the front of these unreal photos, normal women could get a little perspective on what they were looking at, and whether or not this item of clothing would look good on their slightly rounder bodies.
The “essential, layering, scoop neck, bodysuit” on the model with no boobs, would make me look like I was trying to smuggle two bald midgets through a security checkpoint.
This new fashion edict would be so popular it would spill over to clothing design. Creating any item of clothing with a horizontal stripe would be forbidden. Any designer who tried to break that rule would be line up in front of a plaid, flannel wall, and shot.
Padding in bras would be completely unnecessary, because women would be allowed to have breasts again. Underwire support would still be a go since breast implants would also be unnecessary.
And thongs! Thongs would be out. Anything snaking its way up my butt had better have a few thousand dollars in medical diplomas, and a protective cup backing him up before making the attempt.
High-healed shoes are still in. Sorry ladies, I have to draw the line on the fashion revolution somewhere and since I am vertically challenged, I still like a good pair of high-healed shoes on my side. Besides, they’re pretty.
Alas, my friend doesn’t feel the need to wield her power and start the revolution. Evidently, she’s on board with the jutting bones bandwagon (either that or she wants to keep her job) so there will be no normal sized models any time soon. And now that I’ve stated my diabolical plans in writing I don’t think anyone will let me into fashion’s inner sanctum.
My friend called me one day not long after our dinner. “Guess what I’m doing right now.”
“Booking swimsuit models?” A flicker of excitement rolled through me.
Maybe I’d gotten through to her after all. Maybe all my whining and protests had struck a cord. The possibility that women wouldn’t just be seen as pieces of meat for men to drool over in the Victoria’s Secret catalog loomed close to the horizon.
“No.”
All my revolutionary hopes dashed in a single syllable.
“I’m booking the male underwear models.”
“You’ll need someone to hold your clipboard,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
