Bossypants Part 11

When you inevitably can't fit into a garment, the stylist's a.s.sistant will be sent in to help you.The stylist's a.s.sistant will be a chic twenty-year-old Asian girl named Esther or Agnes or Lot's Wife.

In a few years she'll be running the editorial staff, but at this point in time her job is to stuff a middle-aged woman's bare a.s.s crack into a Prada dress and zip it up. In my case, Esther and I are always mutually frustrated when zipping up the tiny dress. Esther is disgusted by my dimply flesh and her low status. I'm annoyed that her tiny hands lack the strength to get Pandora's plague back into the box."How's it going in there?" calls the stylist pa.s.sive-aggressively. Reinforcements are called in to push on both sides of my ribcage until the zipper goes up. To avoid conflict, we all blame a third party. "It's these d.a.m.n invisible zippers!" we say in unison. "I don't know why designers use them!"

The reason none of the dresses fit is because they are "samples." They are from the runway and they were made to fit runway models. Sometimes I can actually fit in the sample size because at five foot four I have the waist size of a seven-foot model. "You can fit in a sample size!" they tell me triumphantly, with the dress straining at the seams, two feet too long on the bottom, and the bra cups hanging right above my navel. They want this to be important to you, so go with it.

Next you are taken to the hair and makeup chair. "Do you have anything on your face?" the makeup artist will ask gently. You don't because, as previously mentioned, you are sandbagging. The makeup artist will then delicately apply expensive moisturizer to your chicken leg while the hair stylist ma.s.sages your scalp (secretly checking for bald spots).

Once you're moisturized and have enjoyed your free cappuccino, the makeup transformation begins in earnest. They pluck your eyebrows for what seems like twenty minutes even though you have already plucked them fully the night before.

If you're like me, you probably take ten to twelve seconds a day to put on some eyeliner and mascara. Maybe you throw in five seconds of eye shadow if it's New Year's Eve. The makeup artist at your photo shoot will work methodically on your eyelids with a series of tickly little brushes for a hundred minutes. It's soothing, actually, because you must sit still and you absolutely can't do anything else. She will do this thing before she lines your lips where she puts her finger on your top lip and rolls it back ever so gently. When she is done, you look like you have lips! Not crazy overdrawn grandma lips like you would do, but G.o.d-given lips.

While this is going on, someone gives you a manicure and a pedicure. At really fancy shoots, a celebrity fecalist will study your bowel movements and adjust your humours.

The leg ma.s.sage and the warm lights of the makeup mirror feel so cozy that you could almost believe that this is your actual life instead of that endless degrading "looking for the checkbook" and"boiling macaroni" s.h.i.+t you live with at home.

At some point in the morning, one of the stylists or publicists or fecalists will declare that the free coffee is "not working for me," and some intern is sent out to get other coffee. Or bubble tea. Or gum, Advil, Red Bull, and egg white omelets that are destined to be forgotten about and left on a windowsill.

Only when your makeup is done will they start to do your hair. You hair will be blown straight, then set on large rollers. The hairdresser's a.s.sistant hands him rollers and pins on command like an ORnurse. These fas.h.i.+onable young a.s.sistants are a fun window into what the rest of us will be wearing three years from now. From what I've seen lately, we can look forward to the return of prairie skirts and the male s.h.a.g. (The prairie skirts will be on men and the male s.h.a.g will be on women.) Once your hair is straightened, it will be curled, then shown to the photographer, who will stare at it with his or her head c.o.c.ked to one side. Then it will be restraightened.

Depending on the concept for the shoot and the health of your natural hair, you may be asked to wear hair extensions. It's okay. A controlled, photo shoot environment is where extensions belong.Places that are less ideal for hair extensions: the grocery store, women's prison, a water park.

Once your hair and makeup are done, you'll slip into your first look. It will most definitely be one of the dresses that didn't even come close to fitting you, so Lot's Wife will bridge the gap with a thick piece of white elastic and some safety pins. Don't ever feel inadequate when you look at magazines. Just remember that every person you see on a cover has a bra and underwear hanging out a gaping hole in the back. Everyone. Heidi Klum, the Olsen Twins, David Beckham, everybody.

Et voila! Just two to three hours after your arrival, you are ready to be taken to the photographer and shot.

There are different types of fancy photographers. Some are big, fun personalities like Mario Testino, who once told me, "Lift your chin, darling, you are not eighteen." I enjoyed his honesty. Also, I'm pretty sure he says that to models who are nineteen.

Some photographers plan out every detail of the shot, then plug you into it. For example, with Annie Leibovitz, you might have advance fittings for several custom Tinkerbell costumes. On the day of the shoot, Annie will pick one of the costumes, then obscure it with a large harness. Afterward, she'll remove the harness with Photoshop, change the color of the costume, and shrink you down to the size of a pea anyway.

There are the nonchalant "cool guy" photographers who shoot for Rolling Stone and GQ. Watch out for these guys, because their offhand manner can trick you and the next thing you know, you're posing with your pants off. Or worse, with your shoes off.

I'm a firm believer in our const.i.tutional right to wear shoes, and I believe more people should take advantage of it. I never go barefoot during a photo shoot. Even if they say your feet are "out of frame," don't believe them. I know what you're thinking and no, I don't have horrible messed-up feet.Maybe my feet are so amazing that I want to shelter them so they can live a normal life. I don't want them to be the Suri Cruise of feet. Did you ever think about that?

The photographer will ask you what kind of music you want to play during the shoot. Remember that whatever you choose will be blasted through the loft and heard by an entire crew of people who are all so cool that the Board of Ed. officially closed school.

Just murmur, "Hip-hop," or make up the name of a hipster-sounding band and then act superior when they've never heard of it. "Do you guys have any Asphalt of Pinking? *disappointed+ Really?[shrug] Whatever you want, then."

Sometimes they ask if you want to hook up your iPod for background music. Do not do this. It's a trap. They'll put it on shuffle, and no matter how much Beastie Boys or Velvet Underground you have on there, the following four tracks will play in a row: "We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover" from Annie,"Hold On" by Wilson Phillips, "That's What Friends Are For," Various Artists, and "We'd Like to Thank You Herbert Hoover" from Annie.

To get through the actual shooting process, there are three skills you need to master.1) Posing

Posing for a successful glamour portrait is very simple. Start with the basics. Turn sideways. Lean back against a wall. Move your chin forward to elongate your neck. Relax your shoulders. Make angles wherever possible. If you're over twenty-four, smile at all times. Keep your arms slightly away from your sides so as not to smush them and make them look larger. Suck your stomach up and in, and wrap your b.u.t.tocks toward the back, Pilates-style. Be yourself. When you look into the lens, imagine you are looking at a dear friend, but not a friend who would laugh at you for jutting out your chin while arching your back against a fake wall.

Know your weaknesses. For example, I have what can be described as "dead shark eyes." But if I try too hard to look alert, I look bats.h.i.+t crazy, like the runaway bride. If a bout of "creepy face" sets in, the trick is to look away from the camera between shots and turn back only when necessary. This also limits how much of your soul the camera can steal.2) Dealing with What Is Being Said to You

Most photographers have some kind of verbal patter going on when they shoot: "Great. Turn to me. Big smile. Less shark eyes. Have fun with it. Not like that."

Some photographers are compulsively effusive. "Beautiful. Amazing. Gorgeous! Ugh, so gorgeous!" they yell at shutter speed. If you are anything less than insane, you will realize this is not sincere. It's hard to take because it's more positive feedback than you've received in your entire life thrown at you in fifteen seconds. It would be like going jogging while someone rode next to you in a slow-moving car, yelling, "Yes! You are Carl Lewis! You're breaking a world record right now. Amazing!You are fast. You're going very fast, yes!"

With the wind blowing on your long extensions, you feel like Beyonce. The moment the wind machine stops, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and wonder, "Why is the mother from Coal Miner's Daughter here?"

Your impulse will be to wilt with embarra.s.sment. Do not! Before you look up for the bucket of pig's blood, remember, your third and most difficult task is "Trying to Enjoy It."3) Trying to Enjoy It (Proceed as if You Look Awesome.)

This requires a level of delusion/egomania usually reserved for popes and drag queens, but you can do it. It's like being a little kid again, parading around in a nightgown tucked into your underpants, believing it looks terrific. Your "right mind" knows that you look ridiculous in a half-open dress and giant shoes, but you must put yourself back in third grade, slipping on your mom's quilted caftan and drinking cream soda out of a champagne gla.s.s while watching The Love Boat. You have never been more glamorous.

"Believe you are worthy of the cover," as Mario Testino might say to a tense, shark-eyed forty year old.

After about seventeen minutes of shooting, they call lunch. The catered lunch makes you feel like you're finally the person you always wanted to be. Vegetable tartlets. Arugula salad with figs, quinoa, fish that is somehow more flavorful and delicious than a Wendy's hamburger. Miniature lemon meringue pies. Hibiscus iced tea. You fantasize about how wonderful your life would be if you had this food delivered every day. Oh, the energy you would have! Your stools would be museum quality. You could finally impress the fecalist.

At this point someone from your real job or home life will call to check in. Pretend you're exhausted and that this whole photo shoot thing is a big inconvenience. Say you'll be done by six and that you'll be sure to get home in time to help organize the bas.e.m.e.nt storage unit. Then hang up! Do not let those people kill your buzz!

Your afternoon will fly by as you get more and more confident posing like an old Virginia Slims ad.

And then you're done. You get back into this morning's sweatpants, brush out your hair, which by now looks like you've been standing on a tarmac all day, and that's it.

You don't get to keep the clothes, by the way. Some people say that the really famous people get to keep the clothes, but I suspect it's just the pus.h.i.+est, most deluded people who get to keep the clothes because they steal them and no one says anything. Your only keepsakes are the individual false eyelashes that you later find stuck to your b.o.o.b in the shower.

(Someone should do a study of the human brain and how quickly it can adjust to luxury. You could take a homeless person who has been living on the street for twenty years, and if you let them do three magazine photo shoots, by the fourth one they'd be saying, "Louboutins don't really work on me.Can I try the Roger Vivier?" By the fifth one they'd sigh, "Do they not have the vegetable tartlets?b.u.mmer!" in a pa.s.sive-aggressive tone that means "Somebody go get them.") You may sink into a slight depression over the next thirty-six hours. You may wonder why your loved ones don't call out, "Amazing, gorgeous, right to me!" as you scramble their eggs.

But just be patient, for in a few weeks, the magazine will be out and you will have incontrovertible proof that you are a young Catherine Deneuve. You casually check the newsstand on your way to buy Bengay heating pads. One day, there it is! Right between Jessica Simpson and those people from The Bachelor who murdered each other-it's your face! It is your face, right? You can barely recognize yourself with the amount of digital correction. They've taken out your knuckles and given you baby hands. The muscular calves that you're generally very proud of are slimmed to the bone. And what's with the eyes? They always get it wrong under the eyes. In an effort to remove dark circles they take out any depth, and your face looks like it was drawn on a paper plate. You looked forward to them taking out your chicken pox scars and broken blood vessels, but how do you feel when they erase part of you that is perfectly good?

We have now entered the debate over America's most serious and pressing issue: Photoshop.

A lot of women are outraged by the use of Photoshop in magazine photos. I say a lot of women because I have yet to meet one man who could give a fat t.u.r.d about the topic. Not even a gay man.

I feel about Photoshop the way some people feel about abortion. It is appalling and a tragic reflection on the moral decay of our society... unless I need it, in which case, everybody be cool.

Do I think Photoshop is being used excessively? Yes. I saw Madonna's Louis Vuitton ad and honestly, at first glance, I thought it was Gwen Stefani's baby.

Do I worry about overly retouched photos giving women unrealistic expectations and body image issues? I do. I think that we will soon see a rise in anorexia in women over seventy. Because only people over seventy are fooled by Photoshop. Only your great-aunt forwards you an image of Sarah Palin holding a rifle and wearing an American-flag bikini and thinks it's real. Only your uncle Vic sends a photo of Barack Obama wearing a hammer and sickle T-s.h.i.+rt and has to have it explained to him that somebody faked that with the computer.

People have learned how to spot it. Just like how everyone learned to spot fake b.o.o.bs-look for the upper-arm meat. If there's no upper-arm meat, the b.r.e.a.s.t.s are fake. Unlike breast implants, which can mess up your health, digital retouching is relatively harmless. As long as we all know it's fake, it's no more dangerous to society than a radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds.

Photoshop is just like makeup. When it's done well it looks great, and when it's overdone you look like a crazy a.s.shole. Unfortunately, most people don't do it well. I find, the fancier the fas.h.i.+on magazine is, the worse the Photoshop. It's as if they are already so disgusted that a human has to be in the clothes, they can't stop erasing human features.

"Why can't we accept the human form as it is?" screams no one. I don't know why, but we never have. That's why people wore corsets and neck stretchers and powdered wigs.

If you're going to expend energy being mad about Photoshop, you'll also have to be mad about earrings. No one's ears are that sparkly! They shouldn't have to be! You'll have to get mad about oil paintings-those people didn't really look like that! I for one am furious that people are allowed to turn sideways in photographs! Why can't we accept a woman's full width?! I won't rest until people are only allowed to be photographed facing front under a fluorescent light.

It should absolutely be mandatory for magazines to credit the person who performed the Photoshop work, just like they do the makeup artist and the stylist... in very tiny white print on white paper.

Some people say it's a feminist issue. I agree, because the best Photoshop job I ever got was for a feminist magazine called Bust in 2004.

It was a low-budget shoot in the back of their downtown office. There was no free coffee bar or wind machine, just a bunch of intelligent women with a sense of humor.

I looked at the two paltry lights they had set up and turned to the editors. "We're all feminists here, but you're gonna use Photoshop, right?" "Oh, yeah," they replied instantly. Feminists do the best Photoshop because they leave the meat on your bones. They don't change your size or your skin color.They leave in your disgusting knuckles, but they may take out some armpit stubble. Not because they're denying its existence, but because they understand that it's okay to make a photo look as if you were caught on your best day in the best light.

In an act of amazing bravery, I will let you see this photo of me with Photoshop and without.