I recently debuted as a fashion model. I’m not yet as well recognized on the fashion circuit as is fellow Georgian Sean O’Pry, but he had a head start—plus stunning good looks, impeccable style, and irresistible sex appeal. But, you know, Fayette County has been looking for a new face, so, of course, I volunteered. Here’s the story.
Several months ago, Morgan Lanier, event coordinator for Fayette Senior Services, invited me to participate in their Fall Fashion Show. I carefully interrogated her, suspicious that my daughters were having some fun at my expense. My deficits in fashion sense are legendary and, unfortunately, well-deserved. I know nothing about color coordination, pattern mixing, or style matching, and I would even fail a quiz on defining these terms. I have faith that khaki pants go with everything. My closet is a sea of yellowish-brown bottoms, expertly avoiding anything that might remotely clash. When Morgan seemed genuinely sincere that no practical jokes were afoot, I ventured out a few steps on the diving board.
B. Turner’s in Peachtree City outfitted us, so I arrived for my appointment with all the knowledge of a color-blind thrift shop bargain hunter. I exuded the enthusiasm of a teenager condemned to spend Saturday night with his family. Did I mention that I consider a shopping bag standard issue in hell?
Ebullient owner Cari Anderson asked me for preferences, but she quickly spotted my considerable limitations. Mercifully, she fetched suitable ensembles for me, and as usual when I shop for clothes, I accepted the first outfit that gained the slightest approbation from my companion. One word from Cari that the Peter Millar blue shirt with quilted vest looked good, and I could see the finish line.
She brought me three pairs of shoes, and I chose the slip-ons without even unboxing the others. The first belt off the rack secured my pants, and the shopping ordeal was over in about 15 minutes. I learned that one of the female models devoted 90 minutes to her selections, and I shuddered to consider that much time in dressing room prison.
Our fashionable ensemble met the week before the big event to prepare. We didn’t actually practice; rather, we were shown the runway and given an event timeline. It was apparent that no one was taking this as seriously as they might in Milan, so I was going to need a shtick to go along with my amazing outfits to pull this off. Now, I was standing at the end of the springboard, looking down at the water.
I arrived on show night and found Cari and her lovely assistant, Isabella, fully prepared with our wardrobes. Over a pre-performance dinner, my fellow models were reasonably confident, but unwilling to quit their day jobs for a chance at London or Paris catwalks. Fittingly, the Bugs Bunny lyric came to mind: “No more rehearsing and nursing a part; we know every part by heart.”
The lights finally dimmed and the music rang through the dinner theater. Expectant patrons sat around their tables, all eyes on the stage. I was second out with my casual outfit (blue jeans and a bluish, zippered pullover—which I believe the experts call “athleisure wear,” though I just call it “a shirt with a zipper”), and Right Said Fred smartly accompanied my debut. “I’m too sexy for my shirt” pulsated from the speakers and propelled me to the end of the runway and back again as the paparazzi—OK, so it was just a few cell phones—captured my every step.
Always the entertainer, I pulled a stack of (reasonably authentic-looking) $100 bills from my pocket and mingled with my adoring fans. I liberally exchanged the Benjamins for kisses on the cheek, selfies, high-fives, and lascivious looks. I had the over-70 crowd in the palm of my hand. Guarding against overexposure, I exited to a chorus of cheers, leaving a trail of C-notes.
Backstage, I adopted a nonchalant attitude, as is the custom when hanging out with fellow models. I changed into my dressy, Peter Millar outfit, but donned my own leather-soled loafers for my final performance. With ZZ Top stating the obvious, “Women go crazy for a sharp-dressed man,” I walked on stage and dispensed with merely strutting down a runway. It was time to dance.
To driving rhythms, I triple-stepped forward, vined right, added a lindy, and spun around; then I repeated the sequence exactly to the left. Next came a cavalcade of coasters, jazz boxes, sailors, and scissor steps. Lock steps took me forward, and triple sweeps returned me back. As the music faded, I couldn’t resist four 360-degree spins before exiting the spotlight. Unorthodox, yes, but personally satisfying, you betcha.
We ended the show with all models walking the runway one final time and then dancing with each other to abundant applause. Young and effervescent Isabella urged us to hold hands and parade through the audience one last time to a syncopated ovation. As the patrons were filing out, mandatory ensemble photos required stillness that finally quelled the vivacious vibe.
I enjoyed strolling the catwalk and obeying the rhythms that beguiled me to dance. I have no idea if my garments were compelling, but I gave them their best chance to shine. I’ve been sitting by my phone for several days now, expecting an offer from GQ. They haven’t called yet, but I’ve cleared my calendar, renewed my passport, and warned Sean O’Pry to start watching his back.
