Model Citizen

It was shortly after my 14th birthday that my parents decided I should go to finishing school. That I was somewhat geeky and couldn’t cross a room without tripping over my own feet probably had something to do with it. That, and the fact that after several thousand dollars worth of orthodontia they didn’t necessarily want me staying home dateless all the time and burying my nose in a book.

Suffice it to say, the nearest finishing schools were all located out of town. Some of them were even out of the country, which they deemed was a bit far for me to go to learn social graces. And so they settled for the next best thing—a six-week modeling course taught twice a week by a tall, thin woman who had built her entire wardrobe around pink suits and pillbox hats. Maybe it was the influence of Jackie Kennedy. Or maybe it was just a way of simplifying her life by honing her closet down to a few basics.

In retrospect, she now reminds me a little of Wallis Warfield Simpson, a fashion maven whose hair style managed to stay precisely the same for over four decades.

My best friend Kathy had enrolled in the class as well. Off we’d go in a girlish chatter every Tuesday and Thursday evening, confident that our newly acquired poise would garner us a lion’s share of hot dates with cool boys (or was it the other way around?).

In between film roles,” Kathy would predict, “I’ll probably be picking up lots of modeling jobs.”

Did I mention that she was the Quintessential Sophomore Class Actress, having already locked down virtually every role she had auditioned for since 6th grade? Did I also mention that she was always cast as someone’s mother, owing to her “big-boned” stature?

But I digress.

How exactly our instructor had come to find herself in the company of so many geeky and/or big-boned teens for six weeks every summer is anyone’s guess. Certainly I had not been privy to whatever brochure or flyer had enticed my parents to sign me up in the first place, nor did I have any clue about the price and whether her background actually merited it. What was her background anyway? Had she once been someone famous, I wondered, gracing the covers of countless Parisian magazines? Was she recently widowed, reluctantly forced to revisit her old career and pull together enough material for a lesson plan in order to pay the rent?

I’d catch myself staring at her as she extolled the virtues of white gloves, closed-toe pumps, and “proper” earrings that did not exceed the size of one’s ear lobes. What was her house like, I mused. Was it all done in pink so that she melted into invisibility against the wallpaper and furniture? Did she own a poodle named Lawrence? Did she have any friends? It was hard to imagine that she did, given her propensity (and, I suspect, glee) to correct us in front of our peers or to observe that our eyebrows (mine in particular) had not been quite as neatly plucked as she had so painstakingly taught us.

This woman needs a life, I thought.

Fast forward to twelve years later…

I was living in an upscale apartment complex downtown, the sort that caters to its residents by providing poolside brunches in the spring, winter wine-tastings in the clubhouse, and an occasional string quartet whenever they could find one that would work for snacks. The fact that they’d casually raise the rent every six months in order to accommodate all of these perks, of course, seemed incidental to the number of people who kept moving out because they could no longer afford such splendor.

Summer was coming and the new manager at the complex decided that a fashion show would be just the thing to get everyone excited about going shopping. Did I mention she had a friend who had just opened a women’s boutique and was seeking to drum up some quick business?

Since you’re in the theater,” the manager continued, “I’m assuming you’ve done lots of modeling as well.”

While I wasn’t entirely sure how she had leapt to that particular conclusion, I likewise saw no reason to correct her. As has been the case with many fortuitous events in my life, simply saying “yes” has at least gotten me in the door long enough to observe how to do whatever it is they assume I already know so that by the time I’m called upon to actually do it, I’m pretty much there in winging it. I draw the line, of course, at things like performing brain surgery or piloting Stealth aircraft, as I suspect the learning process takes more than five or ten minutes of keen attention and mimicry.

Besides, I rationalized, my six weeks of instruction back in high school had yet to wear off. I hadn’t tripped across a room in quite a number of years and, if I may say so myself, had a nice sense of style when it came to wearing clothes and cute shoes.

Deep down, I had always secretly wondered what it would be like to be a high-paid fashion model. Certainly the prerequisites weren’t that difficult. I had the height, I was reasonably thin, and I had mastered that leisurely yet purposeful “nothing-is-going-to-happen-until-I-get-there-anyway” sort of gait which is so popular on runways.

The only thing which would not have been natural, I think, was projecting that facial expression I like to call, “Vacant Ennui.” Translation: “I am so bored with being beautiful that I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

It is for this same reason that I have often entertained and yet never seriously pursued the idea of a career as a television anchorwoman. As my ex-husband used to say, “You have too much ‘there’ in your face.” How could I impassively deliver a story, he commented, when my eyebrows and the corner of my mouth would be simultaneously conveying that I thought it was quite possibly the stupidest news item I had ever read?

Fortunately, the challenge of having to knock all intelligent thought out of my head and look blithely vacant for a poolside fashion show was tempered by the good news that the whole show was 45 minutes max and that I wouldn’t be the only one modeling the manager’s friend’s designer clothes. In her wisdom to ensure a nice sized crowd after breakfast, the manager had prevailed upon other ladies in the complex to participate as models.

Since they’re not as experienced as you,” she continued, “I’ve found someone who would be willing to not only commentate the show but give a few pointers on how to walk.”

Yes, you saw this one coming, didn’t you?

I should have seen it, too, even from a distance and especially in that particular shade of pink, topped off by a pillbox hat. The even more bizarre thing was that, in spite of the passage of so many years, this woman had not aged a single day. Nor had her perfectly coiffed black hair changed either. Then again, for all I knew, maybe the hair was permanently sewn into her hat and underneath all of it, she was actually bald.

At least she wouldn’t recognize me, I thought. I was older now. More graceful. More mature. Less subject to intimidation.

We shall start with a few simple turns,” she addressed the group in our first rehearsal. So far, she had yet to notice me, although I suspect that my standing behind a woman whose huge platinum hair was not unlike that of the actress who played Fran Drescher’s mother may have had something to do with it.

We were each to do one full stroll around the pool, pausing at designated spots so that the guests could “ooooh” and “aaaah” and admire our fabric finery. When it came time for my turn, I was pretty much convinced she had no clue we had ever met. I gracefully rounded the last obstacle of our outdoor course and struck a fetching pose about three feet away from her.

Hmmm,” she murmured, scrutinizing me over the top of her half-frame black glasses.

How did I do?” I cheerfully inquired.

Her cool reply was not the one I had anticipated. “I see you’re still having a problem getting the eyebrows right,” she remarked.