The time I met a supermodel was the most un-supermodel-y moment I could’ve come up with.
We met each other, but we were never formally introduced.
One morning, I woke up to no water. That was particularly painful as I’d indulged in far too much fermented grape juice the night before. Apparently, the whole apartment complex was sans-eau and I sort of remembered the notices posted around the place for about a week prior.
So, the only option open to me was going next door to the Starbucks to their, now desperately-needed, restroom.
Shoving my hair into a hat but not finding sunglasses, wearing sweats and the same silk blouse from the night before, predictably-smeared mascara sideways off my face, I barreled through the Starbucks’ side door hoping to escape anyone’s notice.
Bad plan because I slammed full-body into Kathy Ireland.
She must’ve been in some kind of meeting because even supermodels don’t dress in business suits early morning on a Saturday to get coffee. Even models dressed in fabulous, clearly-not-a-drinker, form-fitting, business suits.
Now, I’m a tall 5’8″ but when I’m slouching in embarrassment and desperately needing to pee, I can lose an inch or two. At 5’10” plus 4” heels, Kath, as I like to call her now, make her stand out like, well, a supermodel.
And, of course, she is even more stunning in person.
She possesses such a confident presence that even someone body-slamming into her at 8am doesn’t seem to phase her.
She needlessly apologized to me. I gasped something inaudible.
Then, having to wait for the bathroom about 3 feet away from the aforementioned supermodel-body-slamming-incident-in-front-of-witnesses added to it becoming quite a bit more uncomfortable.
No, wait? Not uncomfortable. Awkward is the word I’m looking for. Definitely awkward.