Let’s be not-so-brutally honest here: I’m no supermodel. But when a close friend (whose couch I’ve slept on) asked me to pretend to be one on TV, I hesitantly obliged with the clear distinction that I was doing her a favor, and if I wanted to jumpstart a supermodel career I would have OBVIOUSLY been scouted outside an American Eagle store or called one of those casting agencies that “come to YOUR TOWN” and are on the radio every week.
My friend works as a public relations agent for a classy _______ (insert proper word for what I would call a “clothing store”) in Park City, Utah. Here’s the _____’s website.
What I didn’t expect, though, was to have my confused and fedora-d face plopped on some popular afternoon television show that tends to televise features such as Whoopie Cookies (one of which was shoved into my hand by a headset-wearing stagehand quickly between shoots, followed by a quick hand-to-mouth “eat it, NOW!” motion, as my
friends supermodel colleagues and I reluctantly took a bite of the lemon-frosting-stuffed pancake sandwiches).
To reach the shoot, I somehow managed to break the sound barrier on my bike. This not only created a sonic boom, shattering glass throughout the western United States, but put me outside the television studio long before the rest of the crew arrived. In the meantime, I enjoyed the sun and reading some SLC banners in the zone that I am oh-so comfortable in: big cities with tall buildings. Yeah. Really my scene.
After a quick dressing session in the men’s room which consisted of trying to figure out which buttons to leave open on a cardigan and how to properly tie a skinny necktie, it was time to hit the set in our “apres-ski, just-going-out-to-dinner-with-my-supermodel-girlfriend” outfits. We were positioned, like inanimate flowerpots on a porch–via a series of shoulder twists and half footsteps–in front of bright lights, large shoulder-mounted cameras, and pretty girls who apparently hold the job of simply welcoming
supermodels people doing friends favors to the television studio. Without knowing the first thing about what we were supposed to be doing, Brad, Tim, and I were suddenly having cameras shoved all up in our business.
Between “takes” (which are simply awkward 30-second periods of silence when my friends and I suddenly become very uncomfortable and uninformed about what to do) I spoke up:
Um, excuse me? Yeah, hi. I’m one of the people you’re filming right now. Yeah, so, um, we have, literally, no idea what to do. How do you model?
The official-looking people mumbled something about “just looking like a model,” then returned to the counting down and handing microphones to the witty and well-spoken host who had the job of making us look stupid without making us look stupid.
2 hours, 1 pair of $280 jeans, 1 whoopie cookie, and 1 stupid impression left on the innocent housewives of Salt Lake later, I was free to catwalk through the TV studio, return to my normal wardrobe of a tank top and girl jeans with a U-lock wearing a hole in the back pocket, and “mount” my fixie for a self-conscious ride back to the building that houses my dungeon, aka home.
Let’s be honest here: I’m a supermodel.