The Cost of a Soul

My soul is worth a free trip to New York City. I discovered that last week when I consented to the theatre-equivalent of selling one's soul: modelling. Yes indeed - I'm off for a modelling gig today. In exchange for what, you ask? Well, I was approached last week in a public place by a lady who told me that I have a lovely face and would I be interested in a job modelling for a very well-known beauty products company. (Yes, I know the name of the company and no, I'm not saying which one it is.) The payment for this would be, if I was chosen, an all-expenses paid journey to NYC for a photo-shoot in November.

This is both good and bad. Good because, well, I'll be seen. That's important in my line of work - in fact, one of THE most important things in my line of work. Not only will I be seen, but it's a legit job which I can put down in my resume. Modelling just requires a pretty face and the ability to show it off. Bad, because - I really don't want to attain "fame" by displaying my "lovely face" in a catologue or in an advert in Cosmopolitan. Aren't I better than this?

The simple answer to that question is no, I'm not better than this. I depend solely upon the kindness of strangers, as Blanche Dubois would say. Besides, if more modelling gigs come out of this one, then I'm this much closer to scraping together enough funds for a trip to Vienna. And that, my friends, is worth being sullied by having my picture taken of me all dolled-up with nowhere to go.

In other news, Steph and I are taking the evening after her Lysistrata rehearsal to hang out and think about anything but men. We are both unfortunates who are always the friends - never the girlfriends. So, we're taking tonight to shift our focus away from our loveless states and towards something more important: chocolate. I'm of the opinion that we should head somewhere for coffee and cake, then round off the evening with a nice long Firefly marathon. I'm pretty sure she'll be amenable to the suggestion.