Chapter Seventy One; My Black Angel Debut

Ever have a moment when you suddenly stop what you are doing, look around and think. How. The. Flip.

Did I get here?

You know those moments. The kind where you look at what you are doing, where you are doing it, who you are doing it with and wonder when you bought that ticket for this crazy train you don’t even remember boarding.

Yeah. That was me yesterday.

I was standing in a dressing room wearing thigh high patent black leather stiletto boots, fishnet stockings, and an ebony vinyl tank top that laces up the back. Oh, and lest not forget the flouncy charcoal-colored lacey skirt that was so short it just missed being classified as a belt.

Hmmm. I apparently got on the slut express a little while back and am just now noticing.

Welcome to my modeling debut.

This was definitely one of those things that seemed like a good idea at the time, operative word seemed. When a girlfriend of mine asked me if I would like to model in a regional fashion show I only mulled briefly before accepting her invitation. I mean after all, I am single. I am on the market. If in some amazing moment in the near future a captivating dude inquires what I do for a living, it is not exactly exciting to rattle off, “I work in the tech industry. And I freelance write.” Whoop tee doo. Why don’t you just stamp “Nerd” on my forehead now?

But nonchalantly uttering an addendum like, “And I model on the side . . . ”.

Now that’s hot.

I had to try this.

So here I am. At my first fitting. In a store I’d only ever walked by on my way to fashion franchises like Express and The Gap. In fact, until the modeling agency told me to go to this store, I’d never even noticed this store.

And I am a mall-aholic. That tells ya just how far below my radar this place was.

The sign outside said, “Hot Topic” but I think the marketing gurus missed the mark on that one. Talk about false advertising. This place was clearly more like, “Slut Central,” “Hookers R Us” or better yet, “Leave your Dignity/Maturity/Panties at the Door.”

I survey myself in the mirror. I can not believe I am wearing this.

My inner dialogue is along the lines of, “I teach my daughter’s Sunday school class. This is just wrong.”

Believe it or not, this was the best of three outfits I had to choose from. (Although either of the other two numbers may have had an upside. I am sure had I chosen one of those I could have pocketed (g-stringed?) at least twenty or thirty bucks in one dollar bills after sauntering down the catwalk in those get-ups.)

The modeling agency rep, a kindly woman who reminded me more of my jolly Aunt Charlene than anyone I would picture in the modeling industry, tapped on the door and asked how it was going.

“Oh, it’s going.” I opened the dressing room door and struck a pose. (What else can you do when wearing a get up that would make Britney Spears blush?)

“Oh, I love it!" she exclaimed.

I look behind me to see if there is someone else in the dressing room. Nope. She's talkin' to me.

"Let’s definitely go with this one," she continues as she circles me and then adds, "But it does need something. Maybe some black wings?”

Oh yes. She said wings.

You see, his particular outfit is a costume. Lucky. Lucky me. My fashion show debut is six days before Halloween.

(You thought the story couldn’t get worse? Welcome to my life.)

“Great idea!” the pierced store clerk with funky hair chimes in, “Let’s make her the angel of death!”

I just smirk and think to myself that that much enthusiasm should never be demonstrated in a sentence containing the word "death."

So the punked out/yay to all things evil/chick and the auntish women you would never expect to see in a store like this unless pigs were soaring through the sky soon have me in a pair of black feathered wings.

And a halo.

I am one hot angel of death. Let me tell ya.

They snap some pictures of me for the store manager's final approval and so ends my first fashion show fitting.

Yeah, okay, so I left Hot Topic with my dignity intact.

But guess what?

Not before I bought that whole damn outfit. (Hey, I needed a Halloween costume anyway.)

I figure life is not only too short but oftentimes far too mundane as well. I mean really, I hope I have a few silly things people can remember about me when my eulogy is being read. Break up the blubbering with some laughter.

And I am thinking my slutty black angel of death debut may very well make the "funny enough for a funeral" cut.

Because what else should you do when life just is one big crazy train ride?

If you ask me the answer is hold tight to your fuzzy black halo, hope your wings don’t fly off, and just enjoy the ride.