Short, Over 21 & Thrice Birthed: The Conclusion

Short, Over 21 & Thrice Birthed: Part One

Midnight that night found me, wine glass in hand, on wikiHow and YouTube, researching how to walk a runway. WikiHow suggested walking “almost in the same fashion a horse would while doing trotting leg extensions.” Seriously? Then it explained, “It’s hard to describe but easy to do.” Y’all, I can do descriptions all day long. What I can’t do is walk in the manner that a horse would without then looking like one. I practiced a few times, and realized I’d never get it down and looking natural in one night. Not if shiraz or LCB’s pizza had anything to say about it either.

The next day, we had to show up several hours early to get ready for the runway. Namely, this meant hair and makeup.

Having done theater in school, I’m familiar with stage makeup, which feels a bit like what I imagine smearing my face with clay would feel like. It’s thick. But what was applied to my face that night? That, friends, made stage makeup look light and natural in comparison. Honestly, I think I wore more eye shadow on that single night than I have in every other night of my life combined.

I was more or less shellacked.

And then, for the hair, I thought, “What the heck, let’s just rev it up a little. My hair needs some volume anyway and hey, when am I going to do this again, right?” Nearby, my neighbor, also getting ready to walk the runway, was getting hair tinsels put in that looked really cool, which only increased my enthusiasm for revving it up a little. So the stylist teased with military ferocity, which seemed to make sense in the moment, and voila, I ended up like this (Sorry, I don’t have a picture that conveys the back-of-the-head poofiness sufficiently).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then, when I walked out of the dressing room in my first outfit, before the show began, someone squealed, “Oh, you look like a rich Texas housewife,” to one of the models, and then decided that I, too, fit the description.

“Oh, yeah, like The Real Housewives of Texas or something,” someone else added.

Oh goody, ‘cause that was so totally the look I was going for, in a not sort of way. (Texas is cool, by the way. I love Texas, for real. But when you add the other part of the description, when you are standing in a room with many tall, sophisticated-looking teenage models, the ones who are successful in making looks of distain somehow sexy, when you’re the token thrice-birthed short chick over 21 who’s been ordered to smile? That part, not so much.)

Back in the dressing room, before we went out on stage to do our thing, which involved three walks with costume changes, the woman who had organized the benefit event came out and spoke to us. She’s one of those people I want to be when I grow up, by the way.

She talked about how everyone said she could never throw an event like this together this quickly, that they’d told her she’d still be in a hospital bed herself with her own health issues, but that she had been determined to prove them wrong. She spoke of how she had called around, hoping to invite a large number of ovarian cancer survivors that night, but had met with little success. She explained that when you do these events for breast cancer, for instance, you can have scads of survivors living full lives that can come and show their support. But with ovarian cancer, it’s harder. Most survivors she contacted, she said, were in hospice.

She was hoping to raise awareness about ovarian cancer, to encourage women to get screened so ovarian cancer can be caught earlier, when success rates are higher. Ovarian cancer is sometimes called “The Silent Killer,” because symptoms are often mild or hard to detect until it is too late. She was emotional as she spoke, with good reason, and she was utterly and completely moving.

I’m a sucker for a good speech, really. When teaching persuasion in my classes, I used a clip from the Kenneth Branagh movie version of Shakespeare’s play Henry V where Henry delivers the famous St. Crispin’s Day speech that moves his army to go willingly into battle (and ultimately win) against a much greater army. I can’t watch that speech to this day and not be deeply moved by his words.

After the speech that night, being Awkward Gait Girl who’s thrice birthed didn’t matter. Well, it didn’t matter as much anyway. To paraphrase Henry V Shakespeare, I now had stomach for this fight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And so, I walked thrice up and down that runway, in what I hope was not a horse-like nor highly-awkward manner. I did not look like a professional, but I didn’t fall off the runway, nor did I trip. I even made all my cues, I think.

And, I even smiled.

So now, I do not need to “hold my (wo)manhood cheap” (St. Crispin’s Day speech again – I told you it rocks) having made it through, I think, relatively unscathed, and probably only providing the comedic moment to the especially observant in the audience.

I just never want to see the video of the show, however, lest I find out otherwise.

If you are interested, click on one of the sites below to learn more about ovarian cancer or to donate:

Ovarian Cancer National Alliance

National Ovarian Cancer Coalition