Haute anxiety: insecurities and insights on the runway to a dream

While I am an optimistic advocate of dream-chasing, there is one dream I accepted long ago as unattainable. And that dream was runway.

It is unfortunate but true — no amount of dedication or desire will ever make you taller! Given the usual minimum 5-foot-9 requirement to even step foot on a catwalk, I have always known being a runway model was out of my reach. Literally.

So you might imagine my shock when one of my agents, Jane, asked me if I wanted to be in a fashion show, suitably named Irresistible ...

IRRESISTIBLE: BEHIND THE SCENES

I watched the models as they trickled in. No, I take that back. I didn't just watch. I stared, tried not to stare, scanned them up and down, critiqued them (tried to critique them, tried desperately to find their flaws), picked them apart from stringy hair and big ears to wide hips and big feet. I even managed to notice the dark hair on one's tummy that I am positive was bulging over her pants (at least in my imaginary models-do-have-flaws world it was).

And there I sat, 5-foot-6 and 110 pounds — short and overweight by high fashion model standards — with my proportioned facial features, average ears, average feet, wishing for my nose to be too big, my eyes too close together, hoping and praying that the next time I looked in the mirror I would see something unique — an abnormally large forehead or skeletonlike bone structure perhaps.

Or maybe what I needed was to look as if I had rolled out of bed just in time to pop in my earphones and grab my oversized designer bag before arriving on location late and with an "I couldn't care less" look. No, sadly, no amount of bedhead or expensive handbags would ever make me one of them. So what exactly was I doing there?

I was quite sure they were all wondering the same, that is, if they (a) even noticed me, or (b) even wondered anything at all.

What was going on in their minds? (And why, oh why, did I care so much?) The models who weren't admiring themselves in their compact mirrors were busy looking positively blank. Were they bored or were they just boring? Or maybe it was that it took all of their concentration to maintain that perfected "I couldn't care less" look. Whatever it was, I simply couldn't stop staring, analyzing, wondering. Lucky for me, with more than 50 models, at least 20 hair and makeup artists, and countless designers flitting about, there was ample disorder for distraction.

IT'S SHOWTIME

I began to realize that Jane was more nervous than I. After watching the first few models make their way down the catwalk she came rushing back to the makeup room, gasping for breath, questions spewing from her mouth at lightning speed.

"Have you ever done this before? Do you know what to do? You know how to walk? Don't stop. They're not stopping. DO YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO?" Questions that, perhaps, she should have asked before booking me for the job.

As with every other job interview or audition I have had, I was positive that acting the part was most important, confidence the key (and in the event that this theory failed me, in the back of my mind I replayed the catwalk lessons I had at an agency in New York City).

After spending an entire afternoon analyzing every model in the room, wondering what I had gotten myself into, wishing for just a day to be one of them, and finally trying desperately to convince myself I was good enough, I knew it wouldn't take much to destroy my hollow confidence. And Jane's frenetic outburst was enough to have me halfway out the door.

When she stopped to take a breath, I took the opportunity to take back my confidence. "Of course I do!" I replied, laughing, in an attempt to reassure myself as much as her. "Why do you ask?" I queried, trying my best to appear surprised by her doubt.

"But they are professional models, Ashley. This is what they do."

"And what then, do you think I am?" I, the model standing before her suddenly psychotic agent, wanted to ask. But there was no time for further discussion.

"Come on, you have to GO," she said grabbing my arm and leading me backstage.

THE RUN(A)WAY

And then it was over. I am not sure exactly what happened on the runway and I don't think anyone who was watching could tell you. That would have meant that they'd actually seen me. And I imagine it is difficult to see someone who is sprinting. To be fair, it is called a runway, isn't it? Unfortunately, it is also called a catwalk. And I am afraid I didn't do much walking. Or did I?

I put one hand on my hip and took a deep breath as I felt a push from some backstage coordinator. No turning back now. What if I trip? What if I pass out? I bet the "professionals" never give these things a thought.

And in that moment, I realized the beauty and ironic genius of having nothing going on upstairs. If nothing is going on, it's peaceful. If you don't think, you don't worry. If you don't worry, you don't grow anxious. And if you don't grow anxious, you don't run down the catwalk.

OK, maybe I wasn't so bad. But I will never know. And sometimes you just can't trust your memory. It's a funny thing, the way it remembers bits and pieces. ...

Bright lights, cameras flashing, music thumping. Don't trip. Shoulders back. Lift your knees. Stomp. Don't forget to pose. Wait. Jane said not to pose. But they all posed, didn't they? Too late, end of the runway. Just get OUT, turn and head back, you don't belong here anyway. How awkward did that look? Could they tell I am not one of them? But I am not ... and is that so bad?

SO MUCH FOR AN AFTER PARTY

Safely back in the changing room and eager to leave the unsettling events of the day behind me, I changed into my own clothes, scrubbed the evidence off of my face, and ran, this time, out the door to meet my friend Krib for dinner. I hoped that a nice glass of red wine, good company and great conversation would be enough to erase the day entirely.

Though I made every effort to talk about anything but the show, somewhere between "How is your family?" and "How is your dinner?" the thoughts that were meant to stay inside my head slipped out.

"Did you see those girls? So tall and inhumanly skinny. Did you know you have to be a minimum of 5-9 to do catwalk? You don't even have to be pretty. It's not fair. And so frustrating. Do you know I watched some of them eating McDonald's today? Can you imagine what would happen to me if I ate McDonald's? I watch what I eat, work out every day, show up on time, try to be friendly and respectful to everyone. They eat McDonald's, show up late, snub the staff, and make conversation about 'Can you believe so-and-so worked a job for only $60?' Yet they're the ones who'll always get the jobs ... ," I babbled on, seemingly unable to stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth.

"I will never get to do catwalk." I said, defeated.

"But you just did," Krib reminded me, with a smile on his face.

So maybe the wine and conversation had sufficiently erased my memory. Disaster or not, Krib was right: I had just been in a real fashion show, with real models, a real audience, real photographers. Against all odds, and perhaps my better judgment, I had just been on a (very scary and very) real catwalk. So why couldn't I just be thankful that a dream I had once considered unreachable had, that very day, been realized?

Somehow, through all of the screaming, irrational voices in my head I heard the very clear and rational words that another friend, Angus, had spoken to me months ago, in response to my frustrations with never being one of "them" — the abnormally tall and skeleton-skinny women who rule the runway and much of this industry.

"But you are healthy and beautiful."

The sane, health-conscious part of me tried to believe those words to be true while the perfectionist model in me heard only a good friend trying to avoid a bad conversation.

And even if I did believe Angus's words, why did I feel that it was still not enough to be "healthy and beautiful"? Why did I still feel like a failure, want to try harder? Did it all boil down to just a classic case of "the grass is always greener"?

I couldn't help feeling that there was something more. ...

As I fought back tears, I looked up and saw the stunned expression on Krib's face. And I realized that conquering the runway was not so much about becoming one of "them." Nor was it about proving something to my doubtful agent. It is easy to fight what you can see, easy to direct your anger at someone else. It is much more difficult to confront what's inside. How ironic that in the midst of a fashion show where everyone had come to see what was on the outside, I was busy facing what was on the inside.

Whether I walked or ran on that runway, one thing was for certain: I had faced my fears and stomped my way down a catwalk that I was never meant to be on. Why couldn't I face my fears and stomp all over those nagging voices?

"But you just did."

I took a deep breath, wiped my tears, and returned Krib's smile. Maybe all I needed was a little push.

Ashley M. Fitzgerald spent a year and a half in Thailand as a teacher, model and program coordinator. She is now the international student adviser at Intercultural Communications College in Honolulu. She is a 2000 graduate of Harrisville Central School and a graduate of Middlebury (Vt.) College. "Grown Local, Gone Global" is published every other Sunday. Past columns are available at www.watertowndailytimes.com/section/grownlocalgoneglobal. Contact Ashley at afitzgerald@wdt.net.