It's a walk-off

I have never harbored any particular desire to be a model.

There are an assortment of reasons for this. First, by the time I finally admitted to myself that I could be one, I was too old. Most successful models start working at 14 or 15. I am nearing the tragic quarter century mark. I suppose I could shave off a few years, as is standard practice in the industry, but really: if I told you I was 20, would you believe me? Probably not.

Then, there is the fact that I am too fat. By normal people standards, of course, I am thin, even skinny - in fact, when I get too gung-ho on the carb-cutting, occasionally even bony. But normal people standards and modeling industry standards are worlds apart, and though I would be (and, okay, once in a while am) medically underweight at 132 pounds, as a model I would be expected to be at least 15 pounds thinner than that. I suppose there was a point in time when I could have been a plus-size model - you know, back when I was a size 8 - but who wants to be a plus-size model?

Finally, I live in Boston. There is NO modeling industry in Boston. There are a handful of agencies here that would like people to think otherwise, but no. Not the case. There may be a modeling presence, but I would argue that it can't be considered an industry if you can't make a living at it, and I'd be surprised if it is possible to make a living off once-a-week fashion shows at the Roxy and shilling Budweiser in a silver lame catsuit at the Foggy Goggle. Most of the local publications don't even use local girls - they hire and shoot from New York.

Of course, there's always America's Next Top Model - a televisual haven for the too old, too fat, too geographically remote wannabe model. And while I appreciate all the Facebook wall posts urging me to try out and the coworkers who tore the ads out of the newspaper and brought them to my desk, well...I'm sorry. There's a reason why no contestant has ever gone on to have a legitimate career in the fashion industry. See: too old, too fat, too geographically remote...

So, while my fantasy alter-ego might weigh 117 pounds and I might occasionally daydream about prancing down catwalks in Paris and being Marc Jacobs's muse, I've never bothered to entertain the notion that I could actually have a modeling career.

Then I got a modeling job.

'Got' is perhaps a poor choice of words, because that would imply that I in some way pursued it, when in reality it sort of fell into my lap. A guy came up to me at a cocktail party and asked me if I would consider modeling in a fashion show he was producing. Dubious, I hedged, and finally gave him my card and told him I'd think about it if he sent me all the pertinent information. Because I was sort of expecting it to be like, a "fashion show" involving skimpy lingerie and somebody's basement.

Except it turns out it's an actual, real-life fashion show. At Felt. Put on by a start-up fashion magazine. With an actual clothing company sponsoring (G-Star), actual salons providing hair and makeup (Emerge and G2O), and some dude from MTV's The Real World hosting. With actual models. Okay, Boston models, but still. And moi.

I wasn't too worried about it until this weekend, when it occurred to me that, while the show was a mere four weeks away, I had spent the latter half of February and all of March stuffing my face. While I won't give the gory details, let's just say that I weighed in at a good 15 pounds more than I'd like to weigh (granted, my ideal weight is about seven pounds less than I actually normally weigh, but still). And though I am still skinny by normal people standards, I am in no shape to be on the catwalk.

And then yesterday I had to give them my measurements. Shudder.

So I did what any normal girl would do: I lied. No, technically speaking, I did not lie. I was estimating anyways - it isn't like I have a tape measure at my desk - and I just estimated a little low. No big deal. Except, of course, for the fact that now G-Star is going to send over garments in a size that is not a size I can currently fit into. Awesome.

While bulimia may be, according to Derek Zoolander and Hansel, a great way to lose a few pounds before a big show, it is also a dangerous eating disorder. So, problem solver that I am, I have put myself on the South Beath Diet. Which in the grand scheme of weight loss strategies is really more of a lifestyle than a diet - I mean, it's not like I'm eating exclusively cabbage and grapefruit or anything. But, fair warning: if you talk to me over the next couple of weeks and I seem unusually bitchy, I'm sorry, it's just that I've been living off foliage and nonfat dairy since March 31st. You understand.

Oh, and here's the real kicker: I joined a gym. I know that one of my New Year's resolutions was specifically to not join a gym, but you can't keep them all, and besides, what if the put me in a skirt? I already have pasty white legs thanks to nature's totally shafting me in the melanin department; the last thing I need is for them to be chunky as well. Besides, even if it weren't for the fashion show, now that I'm almost 25 I can't reasonably expect to pull off my beloved short shorts without logging a few hours a week on the treadmill. Just because gravity will eventually win out doesn't mean I can't go down swinging.

So for those of you who are in the Boston area, mark April 26th off on your calendars. More information will be forthcoming once I have it. Moral support isn't necessary - if you'd prefer to come and root for me to fall flat on my face a la Carrie Bradshaw in the charity fashion show, that's totally fine with me. I know that's what I'd be doing if the tables were turned.