Apparently looking to self-loathe, I made the mistake of thinking about models today. [This is probably due to the fact that being a resident of Nashville means you are constantly bombarded with good-lookingness. Seriously, people. Have you been here? There are hotties everywhere.]
I was looking around the cafe today thinking, “Everyone in here could actually be a model; like, they could be more attractive than others for pay” when I realized something. Other than the threat of near starvation, constant pressure, and a totally erratic schedule, being a model is probably a pretty sweet gig.
I have never really thought about being a model. Okay, that is kind of a lie. Who hasn’t? I guess what I mean is, it has never been my passion or anything. I am not a fashionista, and cannot bring myself to buy anything more expensive than “On Sale at Target” dollars. But the appeal of modeling is not unlike the appeal of being a musician, an actor, or an athlete.
Glamor. It’s the defining characteristic of most types of creative expression: modeling, acting, dancing, singing/musicianship/rock-stardom, painting and athletics are all glamorous in their own way. All of these paths to creative enlightenment and subsequent connection with other members of the human race are paved with sequins and rhinestones. With the exception of one.
I cannot think of a single time when I have been talking to a guy about the brilliant character development tactics of Jane Austen, only to have him say “What a hottie. Can’t believe she stayed single.” And as dark and mysterious as he may be, Edgar Allen Poe was not exactly the most dashing Goth in the graveyard.
Undoubtedly it is in a spirit of self-preservation that I chose the road less traveled by the beautiful people as my personal favorite. As a writer, I can admit that being in the company of many less-than-stunning peers is comforting: not only because the playing field is level, but because their brilliant, genuine spirits are most often what got them where they are, rather than an unnatural affinity for hair gel and Crest White Strips.
But, logic, reason, and grounded thinking aside, I can’t help but be a little jealous of the movie stars and baseball players. I’m not saying that I’d ever truly consider anything other than writing as the primary means of appeasing my inner artist. But it would be nice to see an independent blogger schmoozing on the red carpet at Oscar night, or a local poet on the cover of Rolling Stone.
I don’t mind waiting while the paradigm shifts: gives me time to get ready for my close up.