It's easy to resent fashion models. They get paid gross amounts of money for what appears to be very little work. Putting on expensive clothes, flashing a smile (or, for the ultra-hip New York runway set, that sexy vacant look of passive contempt) and walking back and forth in a straight line doesn't seem all that hard. I certainly used to think so, but that was before Sunday, when I became a tuxedo model.
One of my roommates, you see, works at Nedrebo's Formal Wear and was told to round up guys to model tuxedos for a bridal show. I was qualified because of my Y chromosome and their absolute desperation, so she asked if I would do it. Spurred by my childlike love of playing dress-up in fancy clothes, I accepted without hesitation.
I showed up at the venue Sunday morning and it seemed like a sweet gig. It was like dressing up for Halloween Part II, except my outfit wasn't cobbled together at Ragstock for under $30. After trying on a couple of tuxes, I got to stand around in one before the show, feeling dapper and helping myself to hors d'oeuvres and wedding cake samples. Believe you me, there is no classier feeling than wearing a suit with tails and drinking Pepsi out of a plastic cup.
Then the actual work began. The other 'humannequins' and I were summoned to learn how we would walk down the aisle. It turned out that there was to be some tricky choreography involving stops and turns with a partner, whom I was invariably on the wrong side of.
We were also encouraged to add any flourishes we wanted; I settled on the finger-point-and-wink over Plan B, a combination of jazz hands and spirit fingers so elaborate that it would have blinded anyone who dared look directly at it.
The most difficult part of the event, however, was changing. The show did not have one body for every tuxedo; each model, after taking one fabulous walk down the aisle, had to bolt into a locker room and frantically change into an entirely different suit quickly enough to meet his color-coordinated comrades before it was their turn to walk the floor again.
Changing in and out of tuxedos that fast is not easy. Do you remember how long it took you to get ready for prom in high school? Now imagine getting ready for a half-dozen different proms within a span of fifteen minutes, minus time spent puncturing your eardrums in preparation of the DJs playing 'Amazed' by Lonestar.
All in all, I modeled six tuxedos in the show and did my best not to trip over bridesmaid's dresses and fly into the crowd like an awkward but well-dressed foul ball. Unfortunately, I did not get to wear the tuxedo with the camouflage vest, which I suppose is to be worn at weddings in which the groom goes deer hunting in the middle of the reception (this is meant to be a joke, but living in Wisconsin, it is somewhat difficult to tell, I know).
So don't hate models because their job is easy, because it apparently isn't. Hate them because they get paid millions for it, while I only got a new pair of socks I swiped from the changing room.
