True Life: I Was a Top Model Reject
“I have never seen that much food in my life!” I glance up, mid-bite of my Chipotle burrito. I am surrounded by towering, skinny girls, gazing in a mixture of surprise, disgust, and envy at what I consider a normal-sized meal.
I’m waiting in line for the open casting call for America’s Next Top Model. I have already been standing outside for an hour, shivering in my dress and heels. There are thousands of hopeful contestants. The girl on my left keeps asking out loud, “Do you think Tyra is going to be there?” while the girl on my right, hiding her hungover face under giant sunglasses, continually rearticulates how much she needs to be a model. We all have completed our 15-page applications—“Describe your ideal romantic partner. When was the last time you hit, punched, kicked, or threw something in anger?” We all have practiced our responses to possible interview questions. We all have posed in the mirror and focused on “smiling with our eyes,” just as Tyra suggests. But even more so, we all believe, or desperately want to believe, that Tyra tells the truth when she chronically proclaims that anyone can model, that modeling is a learned discipline rather than just a fortunately lean physique.
“Nicole McCormick. 19. 5’8”. 135 pounds.” I have been waiting since 10 a.m., and now, at 5:30 p.m., this is all I say to the casting director. I have stood in various lines for seven and a half hours, anxiously awaiting an interview. We had speculated what the actual casting process would entail. Most of us envisioned a short interview, where we would be able to convey how much we wanted to model. But all that waiting culminates in an anticlimactic sentence. I am in a small room with one hundred other girls, crammed against the wall. A cameraman films us while we quickly state our name, age, height, and weight. The only reference to Tyra is a photo of her taped under the camera, her fierce face absurdly watching us as we try to embody the Top Model persona while saying only a sentence.
After everyone has spoken, a single casting director calls out the numbers of three girls, those who have been chosen to continue to the next round of casting. While they rejoice, their twiggy frames bopping up in down in glee, the rest of us gather our coats and walk out the door to awkwardly stand by the elevators, a mass of rejected and dejected girls. Some are crying, some look relieved to have the whole process over. Everyone is exhausted. Most share the common feeling that we really didn’t have the opportunity to accurately display ourselves. We thought that America’s Next Top Model wanted something more than a lanky frame, but unfortunately, the attributes encouraged on the show—fun personality, an interesting look, intelligence and eloquence—are not really what ANTM truly promotes, at least according to my experience. One girl, a doe-eyed redhead, tries to console her fellow eliminated contestants. “Don’t worry, guys,” she says in a Southern accent, “we’re just too pretty. Models are all weird looking. We’re just too pretty.