I sat on the living room couch, eating a bowl filled with lettuce. Fashion Week was coming up soon, and I was watching my figure, but in reality, I was borderline starving. I was about halfway through the lettuce when my roommate came out of her room and sat down next to me. We shared the two-bedroom Manhattan apartment. Rent in New York is not exactly cheap. Especially if you’re an aspiring fashion model.
“Are you going to eat that entire bowl of lettuce?” She asked incredulously as she sipped her coffee. “It’s a salad,” I said, rolling my eyes. My roommate raised an eyebrow at me and replied. “Is it? A salad has more ingredients in it than just lettuce. You have had a salad before right?” Not wanting to answer her, I went back to eating.
Taking my fork, I stabbed a few pieces of the leafy green and shoved it into my mouth. The taste was like eating crunchy, watery cardboard but I can’t afford to put anything else in it. If I weren’t bent on becoming a model for the most well-known fashion brands in the world, I would be eating whatever I want instead of a large bowl of bunny food. What I wouldn’t give for some ramen noodles or a bacon cheeseburger with fries.
“I hear that one of the models does drugs to maintain her slim figure.” My roommate said. “Really? Well, that’s a damn shame because if she keeps that up, she’ll be dead before she’s twenty-five or thirty if she’s lucky.” I said through a mouthful of lettuce. I know that most of the models like to party like there’s no tomorrow after a show. Some wouldn’t show up until about late afternoon for rehearsals, and even then they would either still be tired from the night before or hungover from all the alcohol they consumed. Another reason why I don’t drink or go to parties. Heaving a sigh, I picked at the remaining bits of my “salad,” unable to take another bite. Putting the fork in the bowl, I placed it on the coffee table and leaned back against the couch.
“Maybe I’m not cut out for the modelling life,” I mumbled. “Maybe my mother was right, this is a pipe dream, I should focus on something that’s more stable.” My roommate gave me a sympathetic glance as she put a hand on my shoulder. “You wouldn’t be here sharing an apartment with me if you didn’t think that you can make it someday. Who knows? Perhaps you will be the next Cindy Crawford.” Letting out a breathy chuckle, I thanked my roommate for her encouraging words and informed her that we should be heading to the studio. As I made my way to my room to get ready, a thought entered my mind: I hope she’s right about this.