Fit Modeling & Lisa

I booked a job as a fit model, their normal model was out of town or something so I replaced her for the day. Fit modeling is comparable to showroom work, I call it the office job of modeling. It pays well but it is not glamorous by any means. You wear the first samples of clothing which usually look like shit and are ill fitting. 5-10 people stare at you, take measurements, write on the clothes with chalk, and put a million safety pins in the garment. I happened to be “smaller” than their normal model, meaning my shoulder length was 1 inch shorter, thus fucking everything up. A woman in her 50s wearing a dark blue pants suit and bright yellow neon keds walks in. She looks like she’s from Dallas, I don’t know why Dallas but that’s what I assume. Her slight southern accent, bleach blonde hair and freckles from years of being in sun makes me think Texas.

“I like her more than Lisa, look how that seam fits better on her shoulder. Mary, can you change all our samples to have a 14 inch shoulder length instead of 15? We need to alter our size smalls to fit skinnier girls.”

Did my shoulders just completely change the entire seam length for the whole collection? Are my shoulders going to be famous? What have I done? Did I just indirectly fire Lisa? Who the fuck is Lisa anyway? I’ll gladly take her $300 an hour for having skinny shoulders. They said Lisa was a swimmer so her shoulders were very broad. I work out maybe once a week and have genetically narrow shoulders, I guess I should be rewarded for that? I try on a dress, it fits great until it hits my thighs. I instantly regret eating that fried green tea ice cream in Bass Lake the day before. My hips are average size, and I do have a bit of an ass, I’m a fucking woman for fuck’s sake. I always get nervous when I try on sample size pants because I know they are going to be a little tight. I will wear the shit out of dresses because my flat chest, small waist, and narrow shoulders make me look 16. I like to think I’m a bit of an “LA face Oakland booty” type of model.

I change into an oversize teal collared shirt and a leather mini skirt. I feel like I look ridiculous. Dallas swivels around in her chair and stares at me before squinting and making a disgusted face.

“We don’t need this, it looks cheap, look at that seam. This looks like something off of 39th street. I can see a girl wearing this to a sweet sixteen party or something.”

I stand there smiling uncomfortably. I’m wearing heels that hurt more than standing on jagged rocks covered in heroin needles. I’d almost rather give in to buttsex than wear those things for a minute longer. I stumble back into the closet and throw the shoes off. I put on some pants and “forget” to put the shoes back on. I walk back out to the design room.

“What is that fabric? Is that wool? This is the summer collection right? Why on earth would we do wool?”

She continues babbling as I drift off into Melissa land, thinking about how tired I am from the redeye flight I just got off of 6 hours prior. I think about what I’m going to eat for lunch and if I should buy ice cream on the way home. I think about where I’m going to be living in a few weeks because I have to be out of my apartment soon, and whether or not moving to LA is a good idea. I start to miss my sister and best friends and the guy I was making out with in California while I was there for 5 days on vacation. I come up with a plan on how I’m going to survive in LA, what agency I could maybe sign with, the possible jobs I could have there instead of NY, how nice it would be to drive to Trader Joe’s again and have a yard. I try to remember when the new Liars album comes out and if I should buy tickets to their show on the 20th. I start to like the old lady’s neon shoes and contemplate buying more neon clothes but feel like I would get sick of them fast because I tend to only wear black, white, and jeans. I think of a few jokes I want to tweet and an idea for a sketch for my UCB class. I remember that my feet really hurt from the size 7 shoes I just had to squeeze in. Dallas is still talking…

“So let’s keep this style exactly how it is. I have a 1:30 meeting, I have to leave.”

I snap out of my daydream and change back into my clothes. I fill out my voucher and have an assistant sign it. She thanks me for coming and I thank her for having me. I walk 5 blocks to a last minute casting, I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and didn’t bring heels with me. I walk into the showroom and immediately an attractive guy asks my height.

Him: “How tall are you?”

Me: “I’m 5’9, sorry, just came from a job and I don’t have heels with me.”

He asks me to try on pants.

Him: “A little tight, no?” He says to a woman.

She says something in a language I don’t understand.

Him: “What other lookbooks have you done?”

Me: “Umm, Missoni…”

Him: “Ok thanks for coming.”

He hands me my iPad and I go back behind the curtain to change into my clothes. I say thank you and leave. I feel like crying. I start to cry. I’m probably just exhausted from only two hours of sleep and not eating properly. I walk home, get into my building, see two dozens roses and think “wow that’s nice.” My doorman says the roses are for me. I tell him to get the fuck outta town, look at the card, and yep, they’re for me.