A model life with feints and wobbles

I'm 60, the Big Six O - as in Ohhh!!

I blurt. I gush. I show my teeth when I laugh. I can be highly sophisticated, with a British  accent, for about 15 minutes, which is usually when I forget I'm supposed be speaking like a British person. 

In polite society, where acquaintances typically tiptoe towards possible ecstasy via, say, an exclusive boutique or expensive restaurant, I run full bore, why waste time?, like the dog wagging its tail as it hangs precariously over the bow of a Zodiac boat whizzing down False Creek near Granville Island. Surely, if Sarah Polley can Run Towards the Danger*, it's okay to run to Boat Dog, panting, spit flying.

I can be British for 15 minutes at a time. It's a skill.

My armature is getting more brittle while my body envelope becomes more squishy. The light wafting of my upper arms does not generate a refreshing breeze. If anything, it slows me down by Einstein-ian nanoseconds when I accelerate as a foot passenger at a walk signal, a mode of transportation that sinks lower and lower every year with my dwindling tolerance of heels. 

I remember Earth Shoes where the toe was higher than the heel. Would they fare me any better, I wonder. They rocked, literally, back and forth, front to back, like a soothing rocking chair. Too bad I prefer to hard rock with my roll. 

Jogging attire

I've tried to catwalk, having joined a model agency recently, and, after much coaching by a professional, have managed a highly impressive* staccato performance of wobble, halt, feint left, feint right, and spin on stilettos with the heel cap missing. It's a sort of rock and roll. 

When asked to do my own Mel Walk it took a while. I lunged, reverse stepped, windmilled my arms, and showcased my vulgar teeth - perhaps even gums, which, in their timidity, are retreating from the limelight every passing year. My dentist thinks if he were to whip up a gummy mash in a blender and surgically spackle it back on, they would grow more. I am not enticed. Besides, I might prefer to buy a new old car for the price.

No gummy mash for you!

Unless I want to buy an expensive handbag instead, like the kind I see at Events (capital E with several superscript e's), which I sometimes am invited to and accept if there is a mini buffet. And seriously, who needs a car when you can have a handbag, is my motto. Tra-la-la-la-la. My Boat Dog self is intrigued.

Who needs a car when you have a great handbag?

Then I rein myself in, wag my finger in self-admonishment - tut-tut-tut - grab another glass of free champagne, whereupon, as the day begins, I may squeeze in more serious practice of the Mel Walk wobble on my way to ogle another pyramid of luxury goods, being careful to swallow my drools of desire and mini-barfs of incredulity. (If you are an Event organizer, please invite me. I'm hungry. And thirsty.)

strut-strut-strut, 

ow-oof strut-strut

                 Feint, feint, faint!

My DIY Angry Girl says it like it is.

I do remember to squinch and smize, which is squinting without lowering your upper eyelids, to look mean, I mean alluring, mysterious, like when you see me you think, what the hell is she thinking?!! (i.e. Is her Spanx too tight? or There's a hormone cream for that.) Chin forward and tilted up to stretch out that neck, which belies my age, which is what they contracted me for in the first place, like a virus. Let's get an oldster in here for points!, although we still seem to be losing the game. We oldsters are loaded, absolutely LOADED!! - with cash or other emotions, often fueled by ageism, which makes us lethal contenders either way. 

We oldsters are LOADED.

Of course I avoid smiling in official capacity, yet another reason I don't need the gummy mash. Gummy bears...that's a whole 'nother story. Off with their heads - nyom, nyom, nyom.

As I've said, I've always wanted to play the role, to be the sophisticate. But jeez, did you ever wonder why glamour rhymes with hammer, clamour, jammer, rammer, yammer? Not to judge, but how did a word that symbolizes the epitome of beauty and sophistication get stuck with such abrasive cousins? No wonder I'm prone, when perched on the pedestal of glamour, to tipping over into the dirty-kneed, hard scrabble branch of that extended family. 

Sweat?! I pay you to do that for me!

And so life goes on, my friends. Good to see you, if you've managed to Mel Walk your way over here, preferably barefooted through a meadow without goose or doggy poops all over the place. Although, considering there are facial treatments now that use bird guano (poop), verrry expensive, maybe a little scat wouldn't hurt. Let Miz Bagg know how it goes. Of course, she'll then force me, her haggard assistant, to test the process personally.

Cheers. 

*impressive: making a strong impression, exciting a sense of awe, wonderment

*Run Towards the Danger is an outstanding book written by Canadian author, filmmaker, actor Sarah Polley