C-bi Catwalk

When you look up Runway Model in the dictionary, the last picture you would expect to see would be me. But today, there I was, strutting my stuff in friend Ronnie's C-bi Fashion Show. Surrounded by my book club peeps, a couple of neighbors, a Petite Ya Ya and even a glamorous grandma, Grande Ma Ma (doing the Jitterbug and lookin' hot), we strolled through the fancy Westin Keirland to sell our wares to the lovely conference spouses as they dined on their seared Ahi. Two-by-two, just like on Noah's Ark, we cruised out to Ronnie's microphoned voice, stood, spun, did the shoulder peek-a-boo and then walked amoungst the audience, giving them the up close and personal, touchy-feely, treatment. I represented the non-anorexic size 12's of the world, all strapped down, sucked in and Spankxed up. I put some extra effort into the getting ready process - blow-dried, gelled, and back-combed my hair into a swingy, fluffy, bumped-up, shiny do. I curled my eyelashes, found some long-lost lip liner and actually looked in the mirror when I put on some blush instead of my usual just slap it on if I have an extra second routine. Along with my four sets of matching shoes and jewelry for every one of my four modeling outfits, my fellow models and I transformed the men's bathroom into a C-bi Central, clothes flying, necklaces draping, hangers swinging, scarves flowing, sorority house melee. The urinal went unused, but every other inch was covered in girlie-girl fabulousness. We finished the show, bowed to the deafening applause, packed up and made our exit. As we stood in the elevator for our trip back to reality, I wondered how much longer it would be until we got called back for our next show, our next shoot. Maybe the next Vogue cover?