I am of Irish and English descent. The English portion is not the style of Princess Diana. It is more the hardy stock of Queen Elizabeth II. The Irish portion? Pure leprechaun. Having married an Englishman -- go Manchester United!! -- our offspring are also not the wisp of a willow stature. My daughter, like me, will be leprechaun'ish in height. Thankfully, neither she nor I are among the misproportioned short folks. We are well proportioned short people.
So modeling is not going to be in the stars for her. She can still make it as a pop star, her dream du jour, but she will not be Hillary Duff. She will be Kelly Clarkson-like.
Why a discussion of our stature and build? Because yesterday she did what will likely be her only modeling gig. She modeled old uniforms for a convention of Girl Scout historians. She had fun, but it was not quite what she had originally been expecting. She was expecting a stage. She was expecting many adoring fans. She was expecting to be discovered.
The median age in the room had to be 60. We're talking walkers, oxygen tanks and wheelchairs. Were there some young ones? Sure. I picked out a few who were my age!! Now that's the kind of room I want to frequent: one where I am a youngster.
So, no, she wasn't discovered yesterday. But she got to strut her stuff, first in a camp outfit from the 1980s and then in a shirt-and-bloomer uniform from the 1930s. Hot stuff!
I will now admit something I never thought I would: I, too, had to model an outfit. Yes, me, the antithesis of all things fashion-oriented, donned a Scout Leader's outfit from the 1950s and walked the room. One of the ladies there said that was one she'd worn. I managed to hide my not being surprised.
[Why the title? Because the Mancunian I married pronounced "modeling" like "maudlin," and it seemed to say it all.]