Foxy Lady

I brought an updated resume printed on thick, creamy paper with me to my first appointment with a modeling agency.

It wasn’t like I didn’t know this was ridiculous. I simply wasn’t ready to let go of the idea that any job I found would put my newly minted master’s degree to use, hence the resume. It was hubris, but a naive kind of hubris born of belief in a system that said, sure as 2+2=4, if I was smart, hardworking, and well-educated (and I am all three) I would land a fancy, high-paid office job instantly if I moved to New York City. There was no need to worry about the fact that I had just $500 in my bank account.

Fortunately, the model scout was too kind or, more likely, too over-focused on work to do anything but accept it and put it on her desk with a mountain of other papers. “Go on, take off your clothes,” she said, gesturing impatiently. “Not your bra and underwear.”

I didn’t think the lighting was particularly flattering, but maybe that was the point. I took off my clothes and she whipped out a tape measure. “You’re thinner than you look in those photos you sent. I thought you’d be at least an 8, maybe a 10.”

I’d sent a series of snapshots my sister took of me in a vintage-styled red one-piece suit. She was right: the suit emphasized my shape, which has always leaned toward the hourglass or, if we’re being brutally honest, the pear. I peeked into the mirror and for the first time, I saw myself as she did: void of sexuality, void of femininity, a series of limbs and skin of varying tautness, too loose here and too sharp there. I was truly was a piece of meat.

“Fine. I think we can sell you as a 6 if you can plump up those breasts. Do you ever wear chicken cutlets?”

—

Fit modeling is a strange world. It’s a matter of luck and numbers to determine if your body is the perfect size for a particular brand and, if they decide they want you, you are required to keep your body in the precise dimensions it was upon signing with the brand. I experienced a totally bizarre crisis of conscience: I’d thought that working as a model would make me feel more beautiful, more sexual, but it didn’t. I also assumed modeling would just be a temporary source of fun stories, easy work, and ego-boosting cash — after all, this wasn’t my real job.

My “real job” would arrive one of these days. It would wrap me in its safe, corporate arms and whisk me away to a world of 401ks and real health insurance, apologizing for its tardiness but appropriately delighted by my quaint and racy stories of “those few months I got by, in essence, by selling my body when I was 23.”

But it wasn’t like that at all. It was hard work and frankly my ass was always a little too much for most designers and my smile translates awkwardly on camera. My “real job” kept getting inexplicably delayed. An unpaid internship lead nowhere. Dozens of applications never warranted even a cookie cutter response. I’d spent a year of my life and all of the money I had on the supposed trump card of a master’s degree from a prestigious university: I ticked the boxes and took the steps and dammit I worked hard, so why was 2+2 not equalling 4?

I became acutely aware of my relationship with my body at this time in my life, both celebrating it and despising it. I hated that I was earning my living through my body, not my mind. I hated the surprised and pitying look people got on their faces when a conversation revealed I had not one but two college degrees — yet hadn’t found a job to match. I hated that women making a living exploiting their looks was a stereotype I’d fallen into. But mostly, I think I hated that making a living this way was actually… perfectly fine. I was paying my bills mostly on time and feeding my cat expensive, grain-free cat food, for me the two biggest indicators of being a Serious Adult. Sure, I was using my body to do so, but it was my body and my choice. If anything, I felt grateful (silencing my inner feminist voice yelling that these circumstances are born of years of oppression and exploitation) that there were jobs like this available for me where there would be few comparable options for my male counterparts also hunting for work.

It took a while, but it slowly dawned on me that maybe there was no “real job” just waiting for me. Maybe just possessing degrees and working hard and sending resumes wasn’t enough. It had never occurred to me that in the real world, being diligent and smart simply wouldn’t suffice. If you really want a stellar life, you either need connections (of which I had approximately zero), or need grit and determination beyond what would be considered a sane and normal amount. 2+2 didn’t always equal 4, not outside of the safe walls of school.

Even though I wasn’t satisfied working in modeling, I became reluctant to take further steps. It’s hard to get motivated when you think you’re doing enough — plus, I had a social life and hobbies. And after all, I was coasting along making decent money and was pretty happy. I still sent out occasional resumes, but those grew fewer and further between.

That’s why I thank the universe for the green fox.

At my very last modeling gig, I was asked to live model a bunch of furs for an auction. I wasn’t completely thrilled about it as I’m not a big fan of fur, but as it was mostly vintage and two hours would roughly equal my rent for the next month I accepted the job (windfalls like this were part of the appeal of working in this industry).

I was working with one other model, a much taller, much blonder, much skinnier woman who had about ten years on me and infinitely more experience. During the brief auction breaks she’d sneak outside to suck on a cigarette, chattering in a thick Russian accent about which furs she was going to buy after the auction and her two year old son. “By the way,” she said as she ground her last cigarette into the ground, shoving her finger in my face, “you are doing the next piece. I won’t touch it.”

I looked at her finger and shrugged. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but as the junior model I knew my place and couldn’t imagine anything worse than some of the tasteless crap we’d already strutted out onto the stage.

Curious about what could possibly be bad enough that she wouldn’t model it, I pulled the next hanger off the rack and unzipped the plastic sheath covering it.

There was something horribly wrong with what I discovered there. Foxes aren’t supposed to be a hideous, green color. It wasn’t even a uniform, pretty green: it was like someone’s twelve year old thought it would be a funny prank to dip mommy’s stole into a vat of green Kool-Aid so it came out uneven and not fully dyed. The fur seemed comprised solely of clots and matts from years rolled up and neglected in someone’s closet. Two beady fox eyes glinted at me and I was sure I could see desperation in them. “Kill me again,” they seemed to beg.

I stared at it. It stared back.

I was shaken out of my trance when the auctioneer announced the number. Not seeing any other option, I wrapped it around my shoulders, wincing, and couldn’t help but join in the audience’s laughter.

Those beady eyes, coarse green fur, the laughter ringing in my ears — the ridiculousness of it all snapped me back into reality. Modeling wasn’t the life I really wanted. I would only ever just coast in the industry — and that just wasn’t good enough. Yet I’ve remained appreciative of the experience as a whole. It had taken a while, but I like to think I learned the lessons the universe was trying to impart: that being a snob about a degree just makes you an asshole and that there are a lot of ways to lead a fine and fulfilling life, not just the life you’re told you should have. And full disclosure? Not long after this my “real job” did appear, in all its secure glory. And I left it after less than two years, because I was more miserable there than I ever had been in those first months in New York. For some people, 4 might equal 2+2+2, and sometimes, you didn’t want 4 in the first place.

Nevertheless, I do still bring a copy of my updated resume to every job interview regardless of the industry. Some old habits die hard.