Super Model

 

Super Model

My modelling career began when I was thirteen.  Mom took me to a modelling agency and paid for my head shots.  The agency liked my body more than my face, so they offered me an ad for teen jeans.  Soon, gigantic pictures of my ass in blue jeans appeared in fashion stores at the mall.  When my friends recognized my butt in jeans, they rushed to the modelling agency too, but the camera didn’t love their asses the way it loved mine.

My portfolio began with butt pics but soon moved up to boob shots.  When girls saw me in magazines wearing a pink push-up, they all rushed out to buy my new bras.

After that, everything I touched went viral.  If I drank bottled water in an interview, the water company’s stock soared.  If I wore pink lip gloss, it flew off the shelves. I could afford to retire by the time I was eighteen, but didn’t, because it wasn’t about money.  It was about attention.  I was addicted to exhibitionism.   

As I approached twenty, my fan base shifted from girls to young women, so I was photographed less often in underwear and more in trendy skirts and dresses.   Later, my target market moved on from young women to mature, professional women who wanted to achieve success in the business world by looking like me.    

I realized I was over the hill when I was asked me to pose in stretch pants and comfortable shoes.  Young girls got the hot jobs and squeezed me out.   Then I was forced to move into the plus-size market, and then the maternity fashion world.  Now I do infomercials for diet pills.

All good careers must come to an end.  Pilots have to retire at sixty-five, and athletes usually retire by thirty. Now I know how they feel.  I’ll turn twenty-four next week.