1994. 16-year-old me.
“Back to School” fashion show at the Buena Ventura mall.
I’m standing in front of a white pressboard backdrop graced with giant plastic letters and numbers because school is FUN, kids!
Heart pounding, surrounded by strangers in the middle of the food court, about to walk down the makeshift runway. I’m smiling. Not because I’m excited, but because I can’t believe I got myself into this fucking mess. For some reason, I signed up for this. I had to do it. And I had to do it with some sort of confidence I sure as shit never had.
My first outfit. Stirrups, rayon sweater tied around a turtleneck sweater, topped with a long necklace (perfect for Southern California weather).
Down the runway. Pose. Turn to the side. Wait for the other model. Then walk back. Should be easy. It was 20 feet. 20 feet of table top put together with a duct-taped border covering the legs to make our “back to school” runway. 20 feet versus me: an accident prone, 5’8”, 105 pound, insecure girl wearing the most average clothes ever. There to watch: a crowd of at least a few hundred people. Some invited, some just shopping and wondering what was happening and decided to gawk.
My second outfit. Itchy, oversized vest over a matching tank and high-rise jeans your mom would be jealous of.
Down the runway.
Pose.
Turn to the side.
Wait for the other model.
Walk back.
I’m starting to feel as though I got this. Although, it would be easy to get distracted; There are groups of people staring at me. Catty girls snickering and laughing to each other. They could be talking about me, but I’m focused. I have no time for that guff. I need to walk down this death trap of a runway.
Third outfit on. Long denim dress at the perfectly awkward length that only the Amish would appreciate, complete with 80’s shoulder pads and a fake polyester flower (to emanate elegance and grace).
Down the runway.
And…
My foot. My size 9 black flats. The tip of my toe lodges in-between the impossibly small, credit card-sized thin crack between the two tables of the deathshift runway. Within a flash of a second, I know I’m going down. I know I’m going to be the girl of the show who faceplants. The damn 7-year-olds in the show are more graceful than me.
I’m ready for the laughter. And then somehow, I regain my balance. I feel as though I actually fell, but into a bizarre world where my foot never got stuck and I was as elegant and graceful as the polyester flower on my chest.
Nobody notices, and I keep walking.
Pose.
Turn to the side.
Wait for the other model.
End of show.
Kelly is an enigma. When she isn’t developing award-winning UX designs she’s cutting and sewing clothing and illustrating artistic representations of nightmares on wax.
