Oh goodie, it’s market month again. That means two things: I’ll make decent money and I’ll be bored out of my fucking mind. I’m actually writing this from a showroom, wearing a nude-colored american apparel one piece swimsuit and uncomfortable heels so I’m ready to run over to a designer’s rack in case clients need to see clothing on a model. I’m tired. I went to bed at 3 and woke up at 8. I don’t ever sleep. I’m sitting in a room with two other models who are also on their laptops drinking tea. One girl flew here from Paris a few days ago, her boobs are giant for a model. I’m surrounded by French speaking people and so far the only word I understand is “bleu.”
The designer I’m assigned to is a French label that is almost entirely printed silk dresses. I want to own every single one of them. I feel like a hot piece of ass in those things. The retail price for most of them is over $2000, so I can say goodbye to that dream until I become famous or marry a rich man. I’ve also discovered the most annoying thing humanly possible: watching an old person operate a digital camera. Some of the ladies who own boutiques in NYC where they’re slanging these expensive dresses are old as shit. I have to stand in front of them waiting for them to figure out which button to press on the camera, squinting at the screen and asking me to come closer to them so they can get a close-up of the pattern. Now this might not seem that annoying until you have to look at them over 100 times and they STILL can’t figure it out. I want to strangle them and yell something about how the Holocaust was a hoax, tear off my dress, and never return. Man, I would love to do that.
Yesterday a buyer came in to see the collection. I could tell when she liked a dress because she would exclaim “I LOVE HER!” Yuck. I feel like that phrase is replacing “SO CUTE” from last market. Which replaced “I DIE” from that Rachel Zoe woman thing. Either way they’re all obnoxious and make me want to puke on everyone. This is only day one of an entire week, I’m already losing my mind, but the catered lunch isn’t bad so I guess I’ll stick around. It sure beats going to castings in the rain sitting in hallways with 17 year olds comparing thigh sizes to them. I’m too old for this shit. I’m sick of not eating pizza because I have a job the next day and my stomach might not be flat enough to fit into a size 0 pencil skirt. I want to drink a diet coke and not be lectured by another model how I should be drinking a kale shake because processed foods cause cancer. I get it, you bring your own vegetable juice to jobs, you’re better than me.
Don’t worry, this isn’t my suicide letter.