I have a friend with whom I constantly have this discussion with. She is so consumed with her family, her business, her husband, her life, that I feel she doesn’t have anything that belongs to her. Just her. I’ll say to her, “Shannon, what is your passion? What do you love? What belongs to just you? What did you want to be when you grew up?” And she’ll answer, “I never really thought of it.”
So what’s worse? Admitting you had a dream that didn’t come to fruition? Or pretending you never did?
She’ll call me on it though. She’ll say, “Have you always had a dream?”
Yes. Yes I did. I always wanted to be a supermodel. Oh, I know I have said it in previous posts in jest. Sort of.
But the truth is, it was my dream. In my bedroom I had an entire wall plastered with magazine cutouts of super models. This could have been construed in two ways:
1. It was inspirational
2. I was a raging lesbian
I’m not a lesbian.
And in all reality, as much as some tell me that it’s not over yet, there’s still time, this dream can still come true. It won’t come true. It was never meant to come true. I’m 5’4. I have always had a very athletic – read no boobs – build. I was not tall, emaciated, interesting looking, or have huge orbital “make love to the camera” eyes. And I wasn’t about to grow any taller, get any skinnier, or sprout long, luscious eyelashes. And let’s keep in mind, that I have the appetite of a lumberjack. A very big, very hulking, very hungry lumberjack. A lumberjack, who, it just so happens, loves blueberry pancakes.
YET this did not stop me from pursuing my dream. My mother drove me to Vancouver to have a portfolio done. I had an actual photoshoot with an actual photographer in an actual modelling agency, where said photographer assured my mother that I was a natural. I would go far in the business. I would get calls all the time for work. I was the next Elle McPherson. That’ll be $300 please.
After the shoot, we went for lunch at a restaurant that boasted the biggest chili burger in town. 1 lb of meat. My friend, Trevor, who had come along to ogle the other wannabe models at the agency made me a bet that I couldn’t eat the entire burger. Picture it. Strikingly beautiful (ahem…my blog people) budding model, still in full makeup and goth attire from first photoshoot, slamming back 1 lb of hamburger meat, Titanic-sized bun, and an entire can of chili.
I never did get a call-back from the modeling agency. But I did win the bet.
I continued to pursue my dream though. I entered local beauty contests. Which I never won. Competed in pageants. Which I lost. And went to other modeling agencies. Which never called me back either.
And I’m not writing this because I’m looking for sympathy or people to tell me how breathtakingly stunning I am (although I’m not opposed to this brand of shameless flattery). My point is that dreams are a necessary part of life.
I still continue to pursue this dream, although now I have to put an ageing twist on it. I won’t be on the cover of Vogue, but there are several fitness magazines out there, and I’ve had four kids, and I’m not above exploiting them to achieve my goals. Hey Oxygen, look at me, mother of four kids, rocking a two-piece bathing suit.
Yesterday, a friend of mine who owns a costume design company asked me to wear her bikinis for a photoshoot. The pictures will be used to make her new business cards and flyers. Ok! Modeling dream here I come!
I show up at her place, put on my big platform shoes – the ones that all the models wear to make their legs look leaner and longer. I stand in front of the camera. And I’m like, ok, now what.
‘Cause I’m not a model. I have no idea which poses are alluring. Which smile is provocative. Which angle makes my ass look thinner. Is my stomach hanging out? I should have worn my hair straight. This is taking long. This bikini is crawling up my butt. I shouldn’t have eaten that family-sized Mars bar last night. This isn’t a good time of the month to be taking half-naked pictures. I feel bloated.
And my feet are sore from these fricken shoes.
So maybe, just maybe I’ll see my smiling face on posters in some obscure place in the city. But now that my dream has sort of come true, I’m wondering if it brought me more pleasure when it was but a dream…
…oh, who am I kidding! It was fucken fantastic! People, I’m a fricken supermodel!