My Life As A Model Ruined Me

I have over come a lot in life.   A lot.  But there is one thing that haunts me still.  And I’m pretty sure that if I haven’t overcome by now…chances are slim that I won’t.

I have joked about my total inability to accept dresses as a functional or appropriate piece of clothing.  I will never be able to accept it.  You can’t climb.  You can’t play (appropriately).  You can’t run around the playground.  You can’t do cartwheels.  You can’t spar in TKD.  You can’t lounge comfortably.  You can do none of these things and so many more, while wearing a dress.

I have always known why I do not like dresses.  Unfortunately I didn’t have the proof for you until very recently.

I do not have the pictures of my youth.  They are all in the hands of someone else.

So, a little known fact about me.

I.  Was a model.

Sure sure.  It’s a glamorous life.  You would think wouldn’t you?  The lights.  The excitement.  The set.  The beautiful people surrounding you.

The hounding of photogs (that’s model world speak) yelling:

“Look here”

“No…look here”

“No damnit!  Look here!”

Confusion and chaos often seemed to be the rule.

It was hard work.

Then.  There were the dresses.

I’m hoping by sharing this I might just get over some of the suffering I’ve endured.

Please remember I had no say.  I was a pawn.  I was used.

I had no control of my own life.

Do not judge me.

Do You See Me?

Here.   Let me show you a close up.

That is me.  On the left.  Flashing thigh.  Looking so forlorn.  Pitifully scared.  Don’t you think?   Not to mention, don’t you think it unfair?  At least my sister got a band aide to cover some skin.  I however was bared.

I do fear that the picture of me with my cousin in the shortest dress ever will surface.  But if it does…. I’ll post it.  It will be more evidence of my trauma.   Somebody should probably have been arrested when that picture was taken.

I hope now this forever explains my trauma.  And why dresses are the bane of my existence.

I cope.

That’s how I go on.