Amy used to be a supermodel. Like a travel-the-world, gorgeous-clothes, get-paid-to-look-good super model.
Magazine covers. Runways. Glamour glamour glamour.
But in our family, no one cared. Or at least, no one cared any more about the supermodel than they did about the teacher, or the hairstylist, or the non-profit worker, or our little brother who bounced through so many jobs we won’t list them all (hi Trav).
We’d get calls and messages from friends and family all over saying “I just saw Amy in Target!” or “Is Amy the new face for fill-in-the-blank?” or “Was your sister just in a TJ Maxx commercial?” Ummmm….maybe? We couldn’t keep up.
And she was good at it, you guys. I know this – and I appreciate how hard it is to be a good model – because I can’t make myself photogenic to save my life. I try so hard. I look in different directions, move my body, pop a hip and try to be sly. But nothing. It’s not even midly cute. Instead, it looks apathetic and kinda like I’m sad even though I’m having a fun time.
But here’s the thing about Amy-the-supermodel: If you ask her about it, she’ll tell you about the experience of working with people from all over the world, on locations all around the world. She’ll describe how hard the photographers worked, the talent of the stylists, how she showed up ready to work and concentrate and would crash hard after 14 hour days. She’ll tell you about her roommates in Paris, that photo shoot in Morocco, the runways in Milan. She’ll tell you about the years and years of work she did before she even started to get paid. The hours of castings and subsequent rejections. The days away from her kids. The months away from her husband.
She worked really hard. And then she made a switch. And she worked hard at that new thing, too.