Yesterday morning, as I was sitting at my desk, putting the finishing touches on the spreadsheet that I had been working on for three days, the art director came to me and asked me if I wanted to be a model.
Finally. Just like that, I was discovered.
Of course, I said yes.
I was whisked away to the photo studio where I was shown my wardrobe: a large men's shirt, jeans, a big black rubber apron, bright green rubber gloves, safety glasses and men's size 10 rubber boots. I felt like a princess. And then came make up, my hair tied into a messy knot on top of my head and water from a spray bottle on my forehead to make me look sweaty. How lucky am I? Every girl dreams of this, right?
So as I was put into the shot, handed my mop and given my direction -- Look pissed. Look like you hate your job. Look like you're tired and your back aches and you're disgusted with this and you're about to quit -- everything that I've learned from Tyra after watching all those seasons of America's Next Top Model ran through my head. I threw myself into the part. I modeled H to T (head to toe) and I smized (smiled with my eyes.) I extended my neck and I pointed my toes and I became a manual laborer who is sick and tired of stripping the wax off of these floors using this old and outdated equipment. Tyra would have been so proud of me.
And as I stood there for three long hours, with my (actually) aching back and my hands sweating in the giant rubber gloves, shot after shot, turn your chin to the left a little, no, too much. There. Now look mad, it became easier and easier.
Everybody said I was a natural.
I just can't wait to see my face in a magazine. Look for me soon in such glamorous publications as Cleaning and Maintenance Management and Today's Facility Manager.