Reality

Conversations with most models, including myself, grow tedious because the opportunity for depth and intrigue slips through their fingers. These girls often dwell in the strange confluence of worldliness and naivety. They're worldly in the sense that their work demands international travel, usually beginning at a tender age. They trot the globe more extensively than the average person, but most of the time, they’re going from shoots and castings to a comped dinner or night out. Managing their affairs, dealing with tax systems in foreign lands, and packing like seasoned nomads have become second nature. Yet, remarkably, many of them remain as ordinary as anyone else. It's baffling, really. Travel rarely makes people interesting. It hasn’t made me interesting either. Nor should one attempt to make themselves "interesting", for that is the most off-putting thing one can do.

And here's where their naivety comes into play. Most models acknowledge the peculiarity of their lifestyle but struggle to fathom its peculiarity fully. They live as professional beautiful people, even if they don't conform to conventional standards of beauty. This remains true even in an era that often challenges traditional ideals of beauty. They can't quite internalize that most people don't waltz past queues or saunter by velvet ropes. Understanding that the world can be a rather cruel place, and that people shower them with kindness and generosity because of their looks, poses a challenge. The only ones who truly grasp this are those who were once considered less attractive or experienced an "ugly duckling" phase.

I'm keenly aware of why any man listens or feigns interest in anything I say or do, and I'm not bitter about it. It's not because of my personality. Men aren't really concerned about a woman's personality. They only care as long as her personality doesn't hinder their goals, ego, or life. For instance, when a man claims he wants a smart woman, he simply wants someone who can keep up so he doesn't get bored, but that doesn't mean he genuinely wants to engage in something beyond some playful banter.

I've reached a point where I realize it's prudent to never get too vulnerable with a man. You're handing them ammunition, and they'll use it against you. Well, let me qualify that—I understand that men need a woman to be somewhat vulnerable with them. However, I believe that the best kind of vulnerability with a man is the type where when you express that you are vulnerable, it's only to make him feel manly and like he's offering advice that could solve or "solve" the problem.

The truth is, despite my intense fear of abandonment and my tendency to prioritize others' comfort, especially men, my emotional refuge isn't found in them. It's found in my very bog-standard female writing, where I lay out my vivid dreams and experiences with men, both squandered and unrealized. That's why I hope any man I genuinely want to end up with doesn't read my writing. Most of what I express, while lacking profundity, would likely unsettle the kind of "respectable" men I'm attracted to. In fact, I don't think most people want to hear my real opinions, which is why I write. I know that no one will read what I've written.

I am my own best friend.

Even female friends won't suffice. In fact, they often make things worse due to intrasexual competition. They can lead you astray, so I don't usually confide in them.

As long as the company is enjoyable and the man continues to blow my back out and take care of me, then everything is fine. And as long as I have the freedom to come and go as I please, then all is well.

Any man I'm intimate with becomes my sole family. I always dread having to fill out forms that ask for an "emergency contact." It's never family; it's always the man I'm currently involved with.

For now, that's the husband I've estranged myself from, but I wish it were X.

Romantic love is a peculiar invention, and my life is forever compromised when I believe in it too much, and sometimes I unfortunately do.

"They're sooo nice here," the girls enthuse, "Polite and incredibly helpful. People in Paris are nice too. And London and Athens. They carry my bags—"

But what does it really mean to be nice? Yes, they're nice to girls who resemble Marion Cotillard, perhaps with an even slimmer waist and more ample bosom, or a younger Adriana Lima.

It's because they fantasize about us in various states of desire and passion. They imagine girls like us bent over a desk, or, if they're more romantic, they dream of taking us on picnics, introducing us to their families, and then indulging in their passions. We're all aware of these undercurrents, but we maintain a veneer of denial for the sake of decorum. Admitting such a reality would seem exceedingly self-centered. However, one of the most challenging truths most models fail to fully grasp is the relentless march of time.

Time doesn't wait for anyone. Youth is fleeting, and one can't forever traverse the world of rich oligarch playboys with yachts in St. Tropez, Monaco, and Cannes. These men rarely make for suitable boyfriends, let alone husbands. Admittedly, most models aren't deeply invested in the club scene and yachting circuit. Many of us don't particularly favor the promoters, and constant partying exacts a toll on our bodies and becomes rather monotonous. Nonetheless, quite a few girls fail to fully apprehend the inexorable passage of time.

Just last week, I recall sitting in a spa with my friend from Leipzig. The sunlight streamed beautifully through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow on the pool water. We sat on the steps by the window, legs bent, and we observed something unsettling. We noticed the emergence of varicose veins. She's twenty-eight, and I'm twenty-six. Models exhaust themselves thinking they're under constant observation, yet what people see is their image, an abstraction for which they're paid, not themselves. A dollface wears herself out by gazing into her own fears, into her own self.

Every day, I scrutinize myself in the mirror, examining for wrinkles, sagging jowls, furrow lines, and gray hairs. I stand before a full-length mirror, assessing if my breasts have begun to obey the laws of gravity, if they've descended by half a millimeter, if they're one step closer to becoming pendulous sacks of fat. I'm aware of this because my younger years were not marked by physical attractiveness. If a model, or any "professional hot girl," has been graced with a phenotype of beauty throughout her life, then the moment she loses her charm, she's in for a harsh awakening.

I feel this acutely. Every. Single. Day. A test shoot with one of Greece's most renowned photographers loomed on my horizon. Every model coveted a session with him, for he held the keys to advertising clients who orchestrated massive campaigns. His heyday hailed from the nineties when he captured the likes of Rosie Huntington-Whiteley. Now, he was a ceaseless shutterbug. I recall that fateful day, the same day X spurned me in favor of the Painter. He chose the Painter; she was the safe bet. As for me, the only thing I can do is huff paint. The Painter conjured art, maybe not Art, but something of worth. But what did I, a mere clotheshorse, contribute to the world?

X's rejection landed on me with the force of an icy wind. We exchanged letters. The parting words, as with any breakup, were far from clean.

I implored X to see me one last time. He wished he could but claimed it was impossible.

I found myself at an all-time low, teetering on the precipice of despair. My photo session with the renowned photographer held a promise of redemption. I contorted my body into uncomfortable poses, pushing the turmoil of X's rejection to the recesses of my mind. But the nagging thought persisted—I was twenty-six, and it was all coming to an end. The Plague had stolen precious years of momentum. With each click of the camera, I realized: X would not be coming to Athens to see me.