Thick, silvery fog misted over the surrounding cars, giving them the appearance of dead beetles, or rocks carelessly scattered across the road. Twisting clammy hands together, I caught the watchful eyes of my father through the rearview mirror. My mother, childlike in her exitement, babbled endlessly about supermodels and how they made it "to the top!" Her words were an essay of fall fashions, world travel, and glamorous photo shoots. Carefully nodding in all the right places, I pressed my palms against the flatness of my stomach, feeling the slight bulge of the toast I'd eaten the night before. Gazing up at me with expectant smiles, the models from Seventeen magazine encouraged me to try harder next time. Wearing perfect bodies and porcelan doll faces, they laughed through the pages; happy, healthy, perfectly at ease in their string bikinis. I wondered when I too, would be perfect. It was my first photo shoot, and I was 13.

Like strange, exotic birds, the photographer and crew dotted the barren shores of Coronado beach. Their faces hid behind oversized sunglasses and porqupine hairstyles. One had a goatee, and all of them wore women's designer jeans, except for the woman; her legs emerged stork-like from a rusty-black mini skirt. She was the first to notice I'd stopped walking a hundred yards or so from where they stood. As if part of the same body, the rest of the crew turned my way in unison, sizing up their play-thing for the day. In fear, I turned to my parents for support, but they'd already left for breakfast. Abandoning their youngest child took no toll on their conscience. Stork woman's legs moved towards me, and I found myself unable to tear my eyes from that moving skeleton. At least it was smiling. "Helloo honey you must be Amanda!" Her voice managed to sound enchanted even at 6 in the morning. "We are sooo exited to see you!" The black paint on her toenails was perfect; defying the sand to touch her feet atop platform sandals. Ebony eyeshadow smeared her eyelids, giving her the appearance of a malnurished raccoon. Fascinated, I had to ask, "Are you going to do my makeup?" A light hand grazed my shoulder, "No honey, I am. That's Beatrice, the photographer's girlfriend." Whirling around, I matched the voice to it's owner. With his spiky highlighted hair, large almond eyes, and pouty lips, he almost looked feminine. The women's jeans hung loosely about his slim hips, accentuating his long torso. He looked like he could be a model himself. Like seagulls drawn to an old sandwhich, the photograpger and crew drew in closer, scrutinizing the tiny little girl; armored in faded jeans and a baby-blue t-shirt. The photographer, by far the most beautiful of these strange birds, held my face in his baby-soft palms. "Let me look at you." He murmured in the gentle voice sometimes used to comfort stray dogs. His fingertips, cool against my hot cheeks, tilted my face towards the soft light of the rising sun. Against my fear, I closed my eyes, trying to decipher their language of photo terminology spoken beneath their breath. A rougher hand with sharp nails pulled dirty-blonde locks back from my face, muttering something about bone structure. The ocean told me to be perfect with it's gentle shush of waves rising and falling; I tried to envision what perfect would look like.  It was then that those soft hands let go, and I opened my eyes to smiling faces. "You're beautiful. Such lovely features." Declared the photographer, and I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "We can do a lot with you. I'm Chad." In a daze, I shook hands with him and all the members of the crew, forgetting their names the moment they were spoken. The makeup artist, Pablo, or it could have been Paulo, set to work immediately to make me beautiful.  
His hands, like Chad's were cool and soft as he applied layer after layer of foundation, color and moisturizer. I'd never known a grown man's hands to be delicate, but he worked with the lightness and precision of Da Vinci on the Mona Lisa. My father's hands, clumsy with affection, preferred to pat my bony shoulder as a substitute for a full-on embrace. He had the habit of tousling my hair with his hands, made rough from years of hard labor. Years of sanding, welding, and putting together broken pieces had earned him numerous callouses, like badges of honor. Dad never felt ashamed of his worker's hands; he earned them every day by doing what he was passionate about. "Follow your Bliss." My Senior English teacher would later say. But that day I wondered, wondered and did not know, if his hands were the same rough texture they had been before. By the time I was in 7th grade, they reached for a glass before any of us, and to his temples in frustration, before any of us in love. Even worker's hands should show affection once in a while.
"You're finished." Blinking away the memory, my eyes focused on Pablo (Paulo?), who sat back to admire his work. Beatrice held up a flirty pink dress, tapping her ebony toenail while I peeled off my clothes in the stark openness. "Too young to be embaressed." I reasoned with myself, goose bumps rising to my nearly naked flesh. Besides, they didn't seem to have a changing room handy on the beach. Unceremonioulsy she pulled the light fabric over my head, let my hair loose from it's hair tie and smiled. "Wait." Cautioned another spiky-haired man who will forever be nameless in memory. He bent me nearly in half and sprayed what felt like gallons of hairspray over my hair. Tossing my head back like I'd seen the Herbal Essences models do, a wave of dizziness rushed over me, and white spots appeared before my eyes. Beatrice caught my swooning body and smiled sympathetically. She knew. Like a best friend, Beatrice giggled and whispered, "Nerves." to the men around us, who also knew. She pulled out a mirror and crowed triumphantly, as though she had created me herself, "Look at you." It must have taken me a full minute to recognize her; that girl in the mirror. Luminous blonde hair fell in soft waves around her face, framing delicate cheekbones and gracefully pointed chin. Green eyes, made huge with eyeliner, peeked from beneath long mascaraad lashes. Flawless skin shone brightly beneath rosy cheeks, as though she'd just gone for an afternoon run. The flirty pink dress fell just below her knees, subtle ruffles at the bottom and along the heart-shaped neckline. She looked at least 16, and confident.  Layers of makeup covered her face; like the altered hair and clothes, they armored her against the harsh realities of the Real World. "If you walk into a room like you own it, people will think you do." My runway instructor always told me. For the first time, I saw someone who was actually capable of owning that intangible room. Someone who was capable of being loved. Beatrice squeezed my shoulder in exitement, "Amanda, you're a model." A model. I found my identity.

Obviously, I'm not a model anymore, and I wouldn't want to be even if I could.  Perceptions change over time.  I had such a glamorized view of the industry, it was so magical.  Everything was fresh and new.  Even though memories fade as the years progress, I can recall those experiences as though they were yesterday. I never lost that nervous exitement, walking into each photo shoot.  It was truly beautiful  A chance to be anyone they created; like living art.  The entry above was an excerpt from my senior project, and I thought it kind of applied to my last entry; about feeling the rush of being alive.   I think a lot of that rush comes from new experiences, or an old experience; made new by an altercation of it's usual pattern.  Sometimes the enormity of the newness can be overwhelming, but to quote baz luhrman (The Sunscreen Song) "Do one thing every day that scares you."  It doesn't have to be extreme, like jumping off a building or anything, just something that quickens your breath a little, speeds up your heartbeat.  It can be something as simple as offering your opinion to the class on a subject you care about, talking to a guy/girl you like, or trying a new work out.  Whatever makes you happy, seek out ways to do it.  Make it a priority.  Although I don't want to be a model anymore, I'll never forget that feeling of bliss I got from doing it.  I learned so much about self-confidence and poise, about meeting new people and losing inhibitions.  I believe you get that out of every new experience; some piece of wisdom to carry around for the rest of your life.  If you continue the same monotonous pattern of rituals day after day, what are you living for? Sure, you're alive.  Anyone who breathes is alive.  But that doesn't necessarily mean you're living.