The atmosphere of Parkluxe engulfed me like a flame even before I entered the building. People in extravagant costumes and designer clothes stepped out of their limos, which conveniently parked right in front of the doors. Limo after limo after limo, it was something I had never seen before. During the event, the large but seemingly small room was completely filled with businessmen, aspiring young models, wives and daughters, all dressed in ravishing outfits and holding a glass of champagne in their hand while they chattered and made (hopefully important) connections. You could feel the posh excitement resonating like the sound of the clinking wine glasses. The entire thing was very alien to me.
I remember not too long ago that all I wanted was to be rich. I envied the lifestyle. I had my sights set on becoming a surgeon, not because I have a passion for the human anatomy or a desire to cure disease, but because I wanted to be rich. It was a shallow ambition; I am aware of that now.
To be honest, I do not find the lifestyle particularly appealing at all. The smiles that surrounded me were fake, the laughs forced, and the conversation completely superficial. “You see, this designer only likes women with dark hair and light eyes. I only saw one blonde so far.” “I haven’t seen you in such a long time! How are you?” “My daughter has been modeling for four years; she loves it so much. It’s our—her, dream.” These are real examples of the conversation I overheard at Parkluxe.
Then, the models. Ah, the life of a model! To be beautiful, thin, and coveted by girls, teens, and women alike, to be the very first to try on that brand new Holt Renfrew pencil skirt and ruffled blouse, to be rich, to be famous, to be happy. It sounds so wonderful, doesn’t it? But when the models walked down the runway, poised but fast, there but gone in an instant, the glamour faded. They were just people, people like you and me. Something about their eyes made them look unhappy. The coldness and indifference that glazed over their faces was unforgettable, unlike their actual faces and what they looked like. In fact, if I did not take any photos, I wouldn’t recognize one of them if she were standing in front of me now.
Model after model, outfit after outfit, foot after foot, each careful step, meticulously placed: “Don’t fall now. Everybody’s watching.” The entire, depthless event had people submerged head-deep, and I do not know why. After watching that fashion show, it was evident that the models have done this type of work numerous times: eight hours of makeup, 40 minutes of walking, and then your work is done for the day. The repetition, competition, and constant exhibition would kill me.
I realized that I am so happy by just being me. I don’t need money to be happy, and I don’t need fame. I don’t need a glass of champagne in my hand or to be at the wheel of a $100,000 Mercedes-Benz to feel important. It may be fun to dream about it, but I try not to dote. The lifestyle of the rich and famous is just much too overwhelming for me, and I am happy where and how I am currently.
