When I moved to Detroit, I didn't work in my field, so to speak. I worked as a social worker, a receptionist, and a car show model among a few other tepid gigs of that order. Vogue it wasn't. The modelling jobs, such as they were, consisted of going to the ugliest office in all of the world that was papered with xerox copies of head shots and littered with pantyhose and hairspray bottles, the stale smell of make up in the air. It gave me the creeps for reasons I couldn't articulate as did my boss who had legs so thin that I often thought she might be a man. She sucked down Diet Coke from the big two-liter bottles and chainsmoked while evaluating us. "You're prettier than a lot of my car show girls," she said to me. "Great legs, but we have to do something about your hairstyle. And your make-up. Although your foundation looks expensive." The next person didn't fair so well, "Honey, you are just way too fat and your nose looks like it's been broken. I'm not a magician."
I didn't do much in this field given that I'm way too short and the whole thing was demoralizing. Too tall to be a gymnast, too short for other things. The story, it would seem, of my life. The worst was the car show. The year I experienced it was one of an epic blizzard that made getting to Cobo Hall a wretched hellish journey. I stood around for hours, touching cars. I hate cars. Except my car Snowflake. When I got home to him, I looked at him with great love. He would never be a model car, but he was mine. Love changes everything. Under its gaze, the plain becomes spectacular and everything else falls away.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
Drinking television suggestion: Saving Grace
Benedictions and Maledictions