While at Terraplana’s joint fashion show with Bread and Butter, a very humble affair held at Mandarin Gallery, I was reminded of a comment made to me by an acquaintance just a day earlier.
It stemmed from a joke about my friend misunderstanding that I’d slept with this particular acquaintance, to which he responded, “You’re so not my type. I only date models.”
But do I really envy these models?
For the longest time since I was young, I not-so-secretly wished I could be plastered on billboards, worshipped by men, and revered by women. Having some celebrity friends didnt quite help my case. Imagine, life would be a piece of valium ice cream cake, absolute wunderbar and dreamy to boot.
Why didn’t my parents inherit me a pair of ultra long hairless legs, a sharper nose (sans sinus), a massive rack, and saucer-sized piercing eyes? It’s easier to pin the blame on them afterall!
People have told me before that beauty is a curse, and plenty of models have low self esteem from having their looks evaluated all the time. They aren’t all happy, I’m told. I bring this up to Pam, who then says,”Who cares?” and tells me to knock it off since it’s not up to me to judge.
To be honest, the statement about not dating me because I wasn’t a model bothered me and ate (only gingerly) into my self esteem (not that I was interested anyway – I assure you I wasn’t!) but I eventually came to a conclusion. That I do see myself a model, a role model. I may not sell products with my looks, but I sell an ideology of change with my reputation. And I greatly value that in myself.
Perhaps not a fashion model in this life, but not a fact that is all that life crippling. Maybe in my next life, and hopefully I’ll have the time to blog about it!