I used to think I could be a model. Yeah, way back in the 90s. I was young, fit, kind of handsome, but more importantly, I fit the proportions of a runway model…you know 6’1″ tall, 40L jacket, 34″ inseam, size 12 shoe, and skinny legs. And that’s what I wanted to be, a catwalker, wearing crazy clothes and designs from all of the top designers like Gaultier, Gucci, Burberry, Dior. I also wanted a full fashion wardrobe dripping style onto my everyday white v-neck tees.
Before cell phones and selfies, I went to an open casting call in Orlando when I got enough gumption in my gas tank to make the trip. It was my first one ever (and the only one up to this point in my life). I was so nervous that I couldn’t look the scouts directly in the eyes and answer their questions. My anxiety and lack of self confidence pumped my blood straight to my head, enough to blur both vision and memory. Looking around the room though, I knew that almost no one looked like me. I was Indian, and West Indian at that, a rarity in the U.S. modeling scene. I felt it made me a bit of an outlier. Could it help my stock rise to the top? Maybe. And I wished it were the key to sealing my fate in fashion.
The majority of potentials were sent home in the morning, but I was called back for a second look by a few agencies. Talk about an ego boost!
But, along with the ego boost came more anxiety. I wanted to put my best foot forward and didn’t want to screw this up. Little did I know that I merely stepped on the gas pedal to accelerate my modeling crash and burn.
My lunch started to rumble in my belly and my eyes practically bugged out of my head. I was so anxious that I’ll say I almost tripped over myself. Except that my legs barely worked and only seemed to function as well as my mouth. What was my name again? Hold on, let me think…
Opportunity hit me and ran off. I failed to chase it down so we could get a better look at each other.
20 years later, and I think I may still have a shot…