Mind over Matter, or Sweet Heavens, Put Me Down!

Mind over Matter, or Sweet Heavens, Put Me Down!

Posted by sgtlmodel Wednesday, September 8th, 2010 - permalink

One of the hardest parts of my She's Got the Look experience was trying to separate who I am from the person I tried to create. As the child of two trial lawyers, I have grown up with a certain amount of risk assessment drilled into my head. Growing up, my peers thought I was the angel of death. I turned other children's swim parties into mini seminars focused on the dangers of shallow diving and the multiple injuries commonly associated with such reckless behavior. Likewise, trampolines were bouncy bone breakers and balloons should never be transported in the back seat of a vehicle due to the possibility of obscuring a driver's vision; the possibilities were endless. I was a wealth of unappreciated and unsolicited information on the dangers of everyday life. I, too, became a trial lawyer. Why? It seemed to make sense at the time. And then one day, I went to L.A. with the idea that I could simply ignore my genetic code and transform into an easy, breezy, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl.
Rachelle Hits Her Head: In my life as a personal-injury attorney I have done extensive research on the closed-head injury and was greatly relieved a paramedic was called so that I would not be forced to administer any independent testing. It was also what my law-school torts professor would have called a "foreseeable injury." Ten women, participants in a modeling competition no less, were packed into a loft that had only two showers and two mirrors. Every morning involved myriad face creams, lotions, balms, tonics, hair dryers, flat irons and power strips just waiting for the slip, trip, or, even more unfortunate, electrocution. Poor Rachelle hitting her head on the corner of a cabinet that hung over one of the mirrors was so low on my risk assessment sheet that I considered it a minor victory and a good omen.
Robert Verdi's Advice on Jeans: My experience with Robert was one that filled me with both excitement and dread at the very sight of him. Excitement because he knows his stuff and is very funny; dread because every time he saw me his disapproval was evident as his expression turned to that of a man who has just smelled a dirty diaper. That was not the face that made me want to paint on my favorite jeans and charge outside to be ridiculed. Believe it or not, the man actually thought my jeans were a good choice, and while I am sure it was against his better judgment, for a fraction of a second I think he smiled at me. "Wow," I thought to myself, "I know how to pick out the right pair of jeans, I'm just not sure I can put that on my modeling resume." Little did I know this knowledge would soon prove invaluable.
As a general rule, if a trial lawyer is not on the clock, we are fairly docile creatures. We don't sit around and debate for fun, don't argue with our spouse if we can avoid it, don't engage in fights with our fellow reality-TV contestants. We save our energy for a time when we are facing a jury and dreaming of a contingency fee. But when Robert pulled back the curtain and I saw all that fabulous Paige Denim, the primal, must-win lawyer side of me took over. To dangle that type of quality denim in front of a girl who grew up on a Talladega County farm, wearing her brother's hand-me-down Wranglers, was like tying a pork chop around a kid's neck to get the dog to play with it. Those racks had my undivided attention. I did my best to listen to the instructions, but out of the corner of my eye I was scanning the merchandise for the perfect size, color and length. And when the start was signaled I slid across that practice runway in my tight jeans and four-inch heels like I was auditioning for an episode of the Dukes of Hazzard and snatched the perfect pair on my first attempt.
I was excited. After all, I had on the perfect pair of Paige, we were in front of a huge Hollywood crowd, and Robert had given each of us a pair of Dr. Scholl's life-saving, high-heel insoles. The object of the exercise was to model our new jeans. Always the lawyer, I analyzed the situation using a method I call "W.W.R.D," or what would Roshumba do? She advised us to have mental movies of experiences to portray different emotions. What was the perfect jean moment? Brooke Shields. "I will channel my inner Brooke Shields/Calvin Klein ad from the 1980s!" I thought to myself.
I felt very sophisticated and smug until I stepped on the platform and it started to move. It reminded me of the lazy Susan on my mother's dining room table. I am sad to admit that Brooke Shields immediately left my head and all I thought was, "Please don't fall off, please don't fall off." Sorry, Roshumba. I was as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs the entire time.
When the fortune cookie reading, "You will be flying by the seat of your pants" was read, I immediately fought to suppress the instinctive attorney translation of such fortune: flying yields the potential to crash to earth, resulting in a landing that could injure a multitude of body parts, including, but not limited to, the head, neck, spinal column, back, legs and any other limb or vital organ. Couple this with a signed waiver of liability, and in attorney parlance it added up to the potential for significant physical injury with no chance of disability coverage (a.k.a. SCREWED). While my fellow contestants ate dinner and practiced poses, I went to bed fretting over whether I could survive a 4-foot fall. I consoled myself with the idea that there are many curveballs in reality competitions and I would not worry until it was time to worry.
As soon as we arrived at the Wushu studio I knew it was time to worry. They started snatching thinly harnessed models into the air and twirling them around like yo-yos and I could feel the little bit of color in my face drain. My husband once took me to dinner at Stratosphere in Las Vegas, which moves ever so slightly as you dine, allowing you a complete view of the gorgeous skyline. He later told me it was a great view, as I was in the bathroom throwing up for the entire meal. "Mind over matter, mind over matter," I thought to myself. If I don't mind, it doesn't matter. However, when they snatched me into the air, my inner monologue changed to "It matters, stomach acid in throat, going to throw up, sweet heavens put me down!" As I leaned over the sink and splashed cold water in hopes of not showing America the craft services menu for the day, I remembered the "opt-out" clause in my contestant contract. My brain hated the thought of total failure on national TV, but my body screamed, "Resign and we will head back to 'Bama!"
I wish I could say that I pushed through the experience like a brave solider and the most valuable part of the L.A. experience was overcoming my fear of heights, but my fear is also part of my genetic code and I could no sooner change it than I could my eye color. My performance wasn't pretty, or graceful, and it's actually painful to watch, but I did survive. And there were many to thank behind the scenes for that accomplishment, although I'm sure most of them would prefer not being associated with any of my modeling attempts. My good friend Nina was a blessing and a support, as was Diane, who not only encouraged me, but taught me a pose mere seconds before they strung me up in the air." If you can't remember anything else just do this," she said, demonstrating a movement with her arms. As I dangled, sweating profusely, mind blank, I remembered Diane's pose. I also have to thank my Wushu instructor Deb, who was so patient with me and even though I did little more than flop around in the air without trace one of Wushu anywhere close to me, she made me feel like a superstar for trying. And the gang from Prive and MUD, who had their hair and makeup work cut out for them after my crying jag. But most of all, I thank whoever brought the bottle of Champagne. I needed it!
Firmly grounded,
Julie