What if I started this blog with “Hey guys, been SUPER busy lately, no time to update you on my SUPER important life because I’ve been doing SUPER awesome things that YOU wouldn’t understand.” How much would you hate me? SO MUCH! Anyway…
I have odd sleeping patterns so waking up at 8am everyday would not suit me. Most jobs I do are physically and emotionally straining (haha, good one Melissa). Looking pretty all day and standing in odd contorted positions for many hours is like doing yoga for a long period of time, or having sex with someone you stopped being interested in 5 minutes into the makeout session but feel obligated to get naked with because they bought you dinner and paid for the cab. Sometimes giving in is just easier than explaining why the way they use chopsticks makes you want to puke. Or how they always tell you they’re SO busy with work. I forgot what I was talking about.
I had a shoot last week in Central Park. It was 55 degrees and partly sunny. I was willing to suck it up until I saw the clothing I was wearing. Tiny-ass skimpy dresses. Look, I’m thankful for my job, but if I’m cold or uncomfortable I am not happy. I had my jacket to wear in between shots, while I was changing OUTSIDE behind a curtain. I was naked in Central Park at least 20 times, shivering from the cold and on the verge of tears. I respect everyone I work with and try to make the work environment as pleasurable as possible. But FUCK I WAS FREEZING! The shoot was about 8 hours, ugh. At one point I had to wear a sleeveless, backless mini dress in front of a fountain, waiting for pedestrians to move out of the way to get a good shot. I had goosebumps, because, well, I WAS COLD.
Photographer: “You have goose bumps, could you get rid of those?”
Me: “I’m sorry, what?
Photographer: “Well, it’s supposed to be a summer shoot, if you have goosebumps you’ll look cold.”
Me: “Hey, I’m cold, sorry my body is reacting in a natural way to the temperature.”
Photographer: “You wanted to be a model, deal with it.”
Now, I’m a nice person, so I didn’t respond to that comment. Here’s what I said in my head:
“Hi, excuse me, what was your name again? Oh right you never introduced yourself to me. You were too busy smoking a cigarette and eating a croissant this morning to notice me or the other model. Also, you look like you could lose a few pounds, Orson Welles. Sure, this is my job and I don’t HAVE to be here, but complaining to me about having goosebumps when I’m a fucking skinny ass girl outside in the cold is bullshit. You’re bullshit. You stand here in a slutty dress with tourists staring at your body trying to keep mascara from dripping down your face from the drizzle, bitch. That’s right. Fuck. I’m hungry, are there any more croissants?”
Not all jobs are fun, in fact most suck, but I do appreciate indoor shoots with tables full of snacks and a respectful crew who understand the basic needs of models, like water and breaks. That’s it. A bottle of fucking water. I’ll wear six inch heels that are two sizes too small for DAYS, but if I’m so cold that I can feel my fucking ribcage shivering I will be unhappy.
So, to you sir, photographer, I never caught your name, I hope you get run over by a car.