Jenna’s Model Life

Today

Castings: 6

Castings where asked to walk: 3

Castings where asked to try on clothes: 2

Distance walked, in km: 0.5 + 1.3 + 1.3 + 0.2 + 1 + 0.2 + 1.5 + 0.3 + 3.6 + 0.4

Number of different Metro stations glimpsed: 18

Metro lines traveled: 1, 11, 9, 3

Number of times lost: 1, on way to last casting

Models skinnier than myself: N-2, where N is the total number of models at the castings

Quantity of biscuits eaten by over two dozen models at last casting: 3/4 carton

Quantity of pretzels consumed: less than 1/8 carton

Number who ate a slice of the pizza offered: 2

Number of models with recognisable faces: 0

Number of models with recognisable names: 1

Number of models who wore short shorts over black tights with heels: 6, including me

I’d never worn shorts over tights before, and had been saving the outfit because I thought it would be special. I spent far too much of the day tugging at a small hole in the tights to try and make the hole sit above the hem of the shorts.

It was a tough day. I need to drop the inches that have crept back on to my hip and waistlines (after being plied by long lunches at In N Out and Desperate Housewives-marathon snacks of oven fries and mayonnaise straight from the jar, those lengthening bastards) and I have to make my walk look, well, better. Nothing is free about this trip: My agency is advancing me the cost of my flight, my lodgings, living expenses, the cost of my handy book of maps, even the cost of François, but today I met The Accountant, the person who’s writing all the costs down and will be taking all of every check I earn until I get out of the red. (Advances for these kind of expenses are standard in modeling, and I knew before I came that I was inviting the possibility of leaving Paris indebted in more than one sense to my agency.) But the gut fear of not seeing a paycheque for months, and having of necessity to travel and amass more debt in that time, is real enough.

But I’m still in Paris.

And this is worth coming back to.

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The bare lightbulb normally has a shade, but I could tell I would hit my head on it every time I approached the bed or table, so my landlord took it off. (Update: Then, on October 4th, he removed the entire light fixture! Now all the light I have in my room is one piddling floor lamp. Who does that — just walk in and take somebody’s perfectly good lightbulb? I can’t even read in my room at night now.)

This is the living room.

And this is the living room as goofily reflected by the bulbous head of the Castiglioni-inspired floorlamp.