The Girls and the Dogs

"That's why cosmetic chemistry is great! I combined my love for iatrogenic products and the Religion of Science after I couldn't pursue international modeling anymore," the middle-aged Asian woman concluded her talk with a confident flip of her hair. 

She definitely modeled when she was younger. Her figure was still trim, and her long, dark hair, punctuated by one intentional gray streak, suggested regular visits to the salon for blowouts. 

"Why did you stop?" asked a chic yet mousy girl in the front row, dressed in a manner that screamed "underpaid-intern-with-access-to-her-dad’s-credit-card-too-provincial-for Tribeca-but-perfect-for-Yorkville"—Prada loafers, a Bottega Veneta hobo bag on her lap, her face done up in clean-girl makeup, her brows perfectly microbladed and tinted.

"Because I got pregnant with my first child and went from a size two to a size four," she smiled. "And I wanted to use my brain. Modeling brought me great joy, memories, and lasting friendships. Now, I cherish my loving husband, our boutique, and our two beautiful children."

I've never been one to exercise my brain much, if at all. Deep thoughts have eluded me, but I often find myself wrestling with trite existential questions almost daily, sinking into the cushions or the bed. But I wonder if I'm even asking the right questions. Thanatological? Is death logical or paradoxical? What happens when we die? Do past lives really exist? Why do believers often claim to have been Alexander the Great, ignoring the possibility of having lived a more ordinary existence, like that of a peasant who drowned in a peat bog? Why does Donald Duck remain pantsless yet wrap himself in a towel after a shower? And how can one ever be certain they've truly loved someone?

I shifted uncomfortably in the stiff chair, and the room's excessive air conditioning didn’t help. The walls were made of reclaimed wood and stone and somehow the live plants were still alive in spite of the LED lighting and lack of natural sunlight.

My presence here was not entirely by choice. My husband-then-boyfriend had convinced me that enrolling in a Fashion Arts and Business non-degree program would be a brilliant idea while I waited for my work permit in Canada—a suggestion I found rather unnecessary.

I  remembered our dinner conversation where I had expressed my skepticism. "Are you sure about that?" I challenged, "I have a feeling it'll just be throwing away five to ten thousand dollars. I don’t even know the fees for international students. And what then? By the time I finish, the best I could hope for might be a stylist intern position in Montreal or something. By then, with the post-graduate work permit, I’ll likely have my right to work in Ontario through the spousal route anyway."

"Fine, fine," he had replied nonchalantly, taking a sip of his IPA. "Jesus, what do you have against school? I just know damn well you don’t actually want to work in the field you majored in. Just attend this conference. It’s a meet and greet for professionals in fashion, makeup, textiles, and such. You’re a girl. You like girly things."

His words, though casual, had nudged me into attending this event, leaving me to sit through presentations that seemed as distant from my interests as ever. I didn’t even know what my interests were. 

The under-the-table dealings felt more like an insult anyway. I was sick of it all.

With the informative segment of the event wrapped up, we all migrated to the rooftop bar for some socializing and drinks. I grabbed my usual old-fashioned muddled with Rye from the bar and stepped outside to take in the sweeping vista of downtown Toronto.

What am I even doing here? I have no interest in chatting with anyone. Networking events like this make my skin crawl. The only person worth talking to is that captivating cosmetic chemist. She exudes this effortless middle-class grace, brains paired with beauty.

I found myself yearning to reach her level in life—mature, dignified, with a proper family and home. But a significant part of me wanted to skip all the tedious steps required to get there because I knew the journey was filled with horseshit.

Suddenly, the cosmetic chemist appeared beside me, holding a gin and tonic. Summoning my courage, I greeted her, "Hello, Melanie?"

She turned to me, offering a polite smile that showcased her pristine Crest-white teeth. "Hello."

"I must admit, you were my favorite presenter at this event," I confessed.

"What brought you here? You're a student at Humber, right?"

"No, I'm just a guest. I recently finished undergrad in the States, but I'm uncertain about my career path. I'm waiting for my work permit via the spousal route," I explained, feeling disgusted for uttering the words "career path."

Melanie scanned me thoughtfully. "Interesting. You're already married? You're quite tall. How tall are you? Have you ever considered modeling?"

"About five-eleven. But am I not too old for that? I'm twenty-two. Don't I need to be a nubile teenager from Russia or Brazil?" I replied, somewhat incredulously.

She chuckled. "Not necessarily. You just need to look youthful, which you do. I believe you could do well, especially since you've already completed your undergrad."

"Really?"

"Yes. I'll connect you with my best friend and mother agent, Chantale. I've known her for eighteen years. She's the top agent in Canada. If she sees potential in you, then you're in good hands."

Melanie handed me her card and encouraged me to reach out, so I did. Three days later, I found myself standing in front of a quaint baby pink Victorian row house with a front-yard filled with hydrangeas, hostas, and peonies. I rang the doorbell, and a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Catherine Deneuve answered the door—a blonde chignon framing her face, naturally arched brows, and periwinkle eyes. She greeted me with a cute, thick Quebecois accent and welcomed me inside.

Her home could have easily graced the pages of Architectural Digest or Dwell. As I walked in, she called out, "Jazz, I got you those amaretto cups from Pusateri’s."

Naming her kid Jazz seemed exactly right for her. I hadn't yet figured out if Jazz was a boy or a girl, but the name fit perfectly with everything else about their lifestyle. And of course, she shopped at Pusateri’s—a place known for its steep prices, unlike the slightly more reasonable Farm Boy, Eataly, and Whole Foods.

A shrewd looking teenage boy then made his way down the stairs and averted his gaze, showing early signs of growing into a handsome young man.

"Do you want water?" she offered.

"Sure, thank you," I replied, following her to the basement which was clearly a musician's haven. It was filled with Gibsons, Fenders, and Rickenbackers.

"Does Jazz play the guitar?" I asked while she handed me a La Croix.

"No, those are my husband’s; he’s the rock star in the family," Chantale laughed. "But, honestly, I’m the one who makes all the money."

Off of all these girls.

As we settled in her dining room, which doubled as her workspace, portfolios and sedcards scattered about, she delivered those words that would stick with me forever. "This is not your era. You would have done great in the eighties. Could have been a Versace girl."

She began by showing me the models on her roster. Each was translucently pale or deep ink black. Their features were so refined and androgynous they seemed almost otherworldly. Next to them, I felt distinctly out of place—bulky, even. They would be too skinny for Helmut Newton shoot.

"Stand up please," she instructed, gesturing with her manicured hand. Chantale fetched a measuring tape and began to size up my bust, waist, and hips.

"Nice. Nice. Thirty-three-inch bust. Twenty-four inch waist. Hmm. Thirty-seven-inch hips. You have a really nice hourglass figure, but you need to lose two inches from your hips. Bust and waist are perfect," she noted. "My girls usually weigh around one hundred twenty pounds. And you’re not suited to be a curve model."

"What does that mean? I’m curvy? I’m one-hundred-thirty-five pounds?" I asked, trying to understand where I fit.

"Probably fifteen to twenty pounds. If you can shed that much weight in a month, then you'll be ready to compete in my model search in Barrie, Ontario."

Losing twenty pounds in a month seemed like an almost insurmountable challenge.

"I think I can do it," I replied, though completely uncertain if this was the case. "But I don’t know if I’ll ever look like those girls on your roster."

"That's not where the real money is anyway," she said, shaking her head before sizing me up, assessing my potential worth in dollars. "No one really makes money from shows. Your look is perfect for high-end commercial work—campaigns for brands like Lululemon, Coach, Furla."

"But don't I need a Canadian work permit for this?" I interjected.

"No, you'd be signed internationally, and you're American. It's perfect. Just lose the weight. I started in this industry as a poor girl from a rural Quebec farm. When I first went to Paris, I had so few clothes that I had to borrow a black wool coat. Arriving at the agency on a rainy day, I wore nothing underneath but my underwear and bra. After working hard and learning every aspect of the industry, I decided to use my knowledge to help other girls by becoming a mother agent."

Her elevator pitch is perfect. It’s a rags-to-riches tale. It’s the American Dream with French Sex. I don’t even know what the French Dream is about. I don’t even think they dream as they are not imposed with the false idea of a "common" dream. They probably just commit adultery and eat cheese and have two children with a Renault Scenic and a rat dog. Her pitch is both vulgar and sophisticated, like a C-list black and white Buñuel film restarring a young Catherine Deneuve, who strips in front of a sleazy Jean Luc Brunel, played by a young Jean Sorel. She's scrutinized in a completely vulnerable state, perhaps even flogged. This is everything I want and more.

When I got back home, I shared everything with my boyfriend. Initially, he was thrilled, probably because the idea of me modeling before I even got my permit appealed to him, boosting his status as a man.

"I can help you shed some weight," he suggested. "And you should consider trying out for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit search in Miami to prepare for the model scout."

My boyfriend, standing tall at six-one and weighing only one-hundred-and-thirty-five pounds, had a certain appeal in an Iggy Pop sort of way, but his sunken cheeks and hollow eyes were concerning. I weighed the same as him.

In some ways, it seemed like a perfect opportunity for my boyfriend to slim down his relatively curvy Arab, his Egyptian conniption of a wife. During my undergrad years, my figure could have fed the entire population from Alexandria to Port Said, the entire Nile Delta. This seemed like a chance to diminish me, to make me smaller in stature and comportment compared to him.

Honestly, at that moment, I welcomed it. Like many women, I wanted to feel smaller than my man.

And so, the Pygmalion effect took hold. I was placed on what we affectionately dubbed the "Shmuly Diet," and it went something like this:

For breakfast, my options were limited to two soft-boiled eggs, half a grapefruit, and a cup of black coffee. Lunch consisted of a kale or arugula salad, a quarter cup of de-shelled edamame, one avocado, all dressed with apple cider vinegar and lemon juice. Dinner offered a choice between hot sauce salmon or hot sauce chicken, typically using Valentina sauce to avoid unnecessary calories like olive oil or butter. My beverages were restricted to herbal tea or water infused with lime or lemon. And if I was a good girl, I earned a treat of frozen mango chunks and a square of ninety percent cacao dark chocolate. All of this totaled to a maximum of twelve-hundred calories per day.

Each day, I was expected to endure a treadmill session, maintaining a pace of six-and-a-half miles per hour for an hour and a half. Following this cardio bunny session, I'd move on to my usual plyometric ab and thigh circuit: one hundred crunches, forty sit-ups, sixty squats, four minutes of bicycles, a one-minute normal plank, one-minute right-side plank, one-minute left-side plank, four minutes of mountain climbers, and two minutes of Russian twists with a ten-pound medicine ball. I estimated burning about four-fifty calories per workout.

With my basal metabolic rate hovering around one-thousand-four-hundred-fifty calories, the pounds were shedding fast. Arguments erupted over the mere use of olive oil to sear salmon or chicken.

"What are you doing?" my boyfriend would demand, his voice laced with disapproval. "You're breaking the diet!"

"I just want something different from hot sauce fish!" I pleaded. "Just this once, please! I'm craving garlic butter salmon."

"You won't meet your weight loss goals for the search if you keep this up! Is that what you want?" he retorted sharply.

"No," I whimpered.

I had a sweet tooth back then, craving more than just the world's darkest chocolate. I even found myself sneaking hazelnut spread at night. Sometimes I’d even sleepwalk for sweets. 

"You've got brown stuff all over your face. You've definitely gone off the Shmuly diet," he scolded. Then, he marched to the pantry, revealing the jar of Nutella. "You've eaten half of this! Each tablespoon is one hundred calories and twenty-one grams of sugar. Your recklessness adds up to one-hundred-eighty-five grams of Nutella. That's one-hundred-and-five grams of sugar. You've exceeded the recommended daily sugar intake by 210%, more than double—"

"Okay! Okay! Oh my God, just shut the fuck up, you walking calculator!" I erupted, unable to bear his numerical breakdown any longer.

My boyfriend had tossed out all the sweets in the house, so I had to sneak out to Korea town for dessert. I needed to find somewhere he wouldn’t look for me.

I opted for the Poop Cafe. Yes, my dearest former friend, A. It’s a real establishment. Look it up. 

I deserved to be beheaded for going to such a corny and vulgar millennial establishment where quirk chungus Asian dog moms could eat urinal cakes.

In a hangry stupor, I ventured to this cafe while my spouse was at work, ensuring I paid for the contraband sweets in cash. Seated awkwardly on a toilet seat, I ordered fecal fritters, a sewer sour, and a brown sundae surprise.

The sugar rush invigorated me so much that I completely forgot to settle the bill. It wasn't until I was five blocks away from the cafe that the realization hit me—I had accidentally dined and dashed.

A few days later, my boyfriend pounced on me the moment I stepped through the door, thrusting a Ziploc bag into my hand. "Hey, I need a sample."

"Not even a 'hi' first?" I retorted. "Why do you need a sample? Sample of what? Is this some kind of fetish thing?"

"No, silly, it's not a fetish thing," he reassured me. "It's for a GI 360 test to assess your macronutrient levels. Number one looks fine, but I need to check your number two."

"Why are you checking my piss?" I demanded.

"Well, I noticed you tinkle before you shower and you don’t flush until after you’re done showering, so while you're in there, I discreetly check your pee to make sure you’re drinking enough water to stick to the diet."

I pushed past him, needing a break. "Okay, okay. Listen, hon, I need to rest for half an hour, then we can talk about this."

Reluctantly, I eventually obliged, providing the stool sample in the Ziploc bag, but not before taking a hefty dose of Metamucil.

After completing my workout and enduring my usual austere dinner, I retired to bed.

But then, as if guided by some unseen force, my body began to move of its own accord. Each step felt detached from my consciousness, as though I were a mere observer in my own body. My hands reached out instinctively, searching through the darkness until they found the cool metal of the refrigerator door. With a mechanical motion, I pulled it open, flooding the dimly lit kitchen with soft light. 

A mason jar caught my eye, its contents a tempting sight: chocolate mousse.

Just one spoonful wouldn't hurt, I reasoned. 

Seventy calories at most. I could compensate with an extra ten minutes of running tomorrow.

My hand reached for the jar, spoonful after spoonful disappearing into my mouth. But as the rich sweetness enveloped my taste buds, I realized it wasn't chocolate mousse—it was nocciola gelato. Despite its shortcomings, it was one of my favorites, and I couldn't resist. Creamy enough and nutty. Before I knew it, I had devoured the entire jar, gelato smeared across my face.

My boyfriend entered the kitchen, flipping on the lights and catching me red-handed, mortified and clad only in my cotton panties.

"You ate the sample!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with disbelief.

"I thought it was vegan!" I sobbed uncontrollably. "I thought you got it from the vegan lunch spot your sister goes to on Spadina road, across from the JCC."

We never spoke of that encounter again.

But then again, was indulging in my own waste really such a grave sin? In a world where literal excrement may soon grace the shelves of Whole Foods, anything seems possible. With scientists already transforming stem cells into Beyond Meat, salvaging the nutrient content of feces might not be far off. They'll spin it as ecologically sound, and people will lap it up. I'm just ahead of the curve—an early adopter, if you will. I hate to say it, but eating ze bugs is not rock bottom.

As the time approached to head to Miami for the Sports Illustrated event, halfway between where I was and the eventual model search in Barrie, Ontario, I found myself making significant progress towards my weight goal. My cheekbones were becoming more defined, though not quite reaching the appearance of your typical angular Slav mannequin. The remnants of university Aramark prisoner cafeteria food and dumpster diving— fare I ate due to stress and anxiety because I had to pay my way through school— had begun to melt away, revealing my naturally slight frame, not unlike that of a Kenyan marathon runner.

I was always meant to look like a wiry and scrappy yet fertile pear-shaped refugee from a war-torn zone.

Tastefully underweight, perfect fodder for a UNICEF donation. 

Yet, despite my progress, my posterior remained long and deflated, and while my body was lean and trim, it wasn't stereotypically Miami. Standing in line among a sea of girls spilling out of the hotel, with Brazilian butt lifts, boob jobs, and fillers, hot Latina detritus. I was no match for these glamorous competitors, nor were the other girls lined up throughout the W South Beach Hotel.

The truth was, Sports Illustrated was already dead. In a world inundated with pornographic images, the magazine had lost its appeal to its initial target audience—horny men. The swimsuit edition, now overseen by a liberal white woman, seemed out of touch with its roots, failing to cater to its original stakeholders.

Guess who won? A hijabi, in a burkini nonetheless, and a fatty. 

I suppose there's a fine line between modesty and having enough meat on the bones to enhance sex appeal, but this situation crossed that threshold. 

Even a Pentecostal and Rubens would scoff. 

The long-awaited model search in Barrie finally arrived. I had reached my target weight, feeling petite and delicate compared to my boyfriend for the first time. The Pygmalion effect had worked its magic, enhancing our intimacy. Although he missed my peach-like Arab bum, my toned new tuchus was a bit more pronounced thanks to my extra efforts with squats and lunges.

Chantale was overjoyed. "Now you truly look like a model."

I was the oldest contestant there, surrounded by girls no more than seventeen, except for one silver-haired lady who could have graced Talbots and Cialis ads. Each of the younger contestants had their mothers in tow, living vicariously through their daughters' youth and beauty, like vultures circling prey or vainglorious puppeteers seeking to reclaim their own lost youth.

As we lined up to walk the runway, I witnessed a Thai Tiger mom, who had flown in from Winnipeg, kicking her twelve-year-old hapa daughter in the stomach in a corner for refusing to eat an apple.

"I want ice cream! You promised me ice cream yesterday Mommy!" the poor girl cried out.

"Okay, girls and boys! Get in line!" Chantale's voice cut through the tension, calling us to attention.

Boys?

The room was flooded with a sea of prized male show dogs, each one more regal and impeccably groomed than the last. The dogs seemed unfazed, and without owners, strutting with an air of confidence as if they, too, were contenders in the search for perfection.

I stood behind a goofy Australian Shepherd and behind there was a Bedlington Terrier with a gigantic pink cock. 

One by one we strutted our stuff in front of the judges, all locals who were part of Toronto’s quotidian and derivative fashion scene along with bookers, agents, and scouts from Canadian and American agencies. I almost stepped on the Australian Shepherd’s tail because he was walking too slowly.

After each contestant had paraded before the judges, we gathered in the backroom to await the results. Surrounded by both human and canine competitors, the room filled with the earthy scent of damp soil and fallen leaves.

The tension in the room peaked as the winners were called out. In fourth place, a striking black girl from St. Lucia with piercing blue eyes. Third place went to a majestic Giant Schnauzer, while a graceful Borzoi claimed second.

"And in first place," Chantale's voice rang out over the microphone, "Two girls! Melody and…"

Me.

Together, Melody and I were crowned winners of the model search. 

I just had to eat shit to get there.

As the reality of our victory sank in, I couldn't help but notice the mixed reactions among the crowd. Melody's mom, a single mother who bore a striking resemblance to her daughter, her daughter who looked like Gemma Ward, but carried the weight of stress and excess pounds, seemed visibly displeased—not by the dogs, but by the shared first place.

Meanwhile, the Thai Tiger mom was in a frenzy, shrieking at her daughter once more.

After the competition, Chantale pulled me aside with a revelation. "You actually won the competition," she confessed, "but we had to give Melody first place too, because she's a Barrie native."

With that news settling in, I began making the rounds to meet agents, scouts, and bookers. They asked me my age. I shaved off two years per Chantale’s suggestion.

 Soon after, I signed with agencies in New York, Miami, Toronto, Montreal, and even Paris as a new face. 

My book was quickly developed, and before I knew it, I landed my first job: a winter campaign with Lululemon. Three months later, when the paycheck arrived, I knew exactly where it needed to go—toward paying off my university credit card debt. I had certainly made liberal use of my Chase Sapphire card, and my spouse made it clear that I was to never have my own credit card again.