The Photo Shoot

They told me what to do, and I did it. Of course, things didn't turn out exactly like we all thought they would. It all ended in a disaster, leaving me a complete scrambled mess.

I had received the call a few days before. The photographers wanted me. They assured me they had everything squared away with wardrobe, and my look was perfect for their new campaign. It's possible that in my excitement I neglected to ask for any details about the new campaign, whatever it might be, or who the client might be. Know this, Gentle Reader: I had been working so hard and was so desperate to break into show business or modeling that I was willing to sell body parts, organs, precious keepsakes--you name it.

The day before the shoot, I treated myself to a facial at my favorite spa. I said to the aesthetician, "Please be very careful. I know my skin is dry, but we must avoid any treatment that could cause cracking or peeling."

She advised, "I will use our gentlest cleansers and our thickest moisturizers. Not a single pore will show in your photos." She smiled at me reassuringly before leaving the room to allow me to undress.

In the evening, I had dinner with my friend Kingsley. His taste in restaurants ran on the eclectic side, and he had an affinity for bold flavors. We opted for a Mexican-Szechuan fusion restaurant. When my food came out, I had to send it back. It looked glorious but for the pickled red onions. They would do a number on my stomach, and I wasn't sure I would be able to bounce back in time for the photo shoot. I didn't drink any alcohol with dinner either. I wanted to avoid any and all pickling agents.

After dinner, when Kingsley and I parted ways, he said, "If you need anything at all, if this photo shoot seems strange in any way, I want you to call me right away. My guys and I will be there to assist you immediately. You are a very special friend to all of us, and we all want to see you succeed, and we don't want anyone to take advantage of you."

"Kingsley," I said. "I think that may be the sweetest, loveliest thing you have ever said to me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart." While I expressed my gratitude, I felt the heat of emotion crossing my face and the pulsing sting of tears brewing in my tear ducts.

Kingsley gave me a ride home. He made sure my coat was buttoned to the very top, my scarf was tied just so, and that my hat was in no danger of falling. "I'm going to walk you to your door. It's very windy, and I would feel awful if you slipped or fell before your big day." We reached the front door, Kingsley opening it with the key I handed him, and he gave a small bow, smiling up at me shyly before striding back to his car. What a good and caring friend!

I began my nightly skincare routine, taking extra care to wear my softest, cuddliest pajamas. My doctor had prescribed a special cream for my hands, arms, legs, and feet to ensure they would always be supple. Any kind of cracking, wrinkling, or blemishes on my skin could create terrible consequences to me personally and professionally. I covered my hands and feet with cashmere socks to lock in the moisture. My eye mask was silk, as were my pillow cases. I would not suffer wrinkles or any sort of cracked skin.

Taking extra care, I set my alarm clock and decided to give myself enough time to go through my entire routine again in the morning before leaving for the photo shoot. As I was just about to lower my eye mask, Kingsley sent me a text: It's supposed to be very windy tomorrow. I will pick you up in plenty of time to get to the photo shoot. Don't worry about taking the subway.

How nice! In the morning, Kingsley arrived and went through the same sequence as the previous night, bundling me like a small child and walking with me to his car then depositing me at the loft where the photo shoot was taking place.

The photographer and crew fawned over me, gushing how perfect and porcelain-like my skin was. He said some of the photos would be indoors, and some would be outdoors, and would I be all right doing outdoor photos. I agreed to everything. This was the break I had been waiting for!

The wardrobe was strange. It was a military style but in peacock blue. They wound diaphanous tulle around me to soften the structure of the military-esque outfit, and I twirled slowly, making sure to communicate that I didn't want to trip or fall and ruin the photo shoot. Everyone was incredibly sympathetic, and they were actually wearing kid-glove when they handled me. What star treatment!

"Are you ready to go outside for the outdoor photos? We'd like you to change into a different jacket for the next set of photos. I think you will look lovely in red," said the photographer.

The next thing I knew, I was decked out in a red velvet jacket that went down to my knees. There was a ladder, and the photographer wanted to get photos of me ascending the ladder. At the top of the ladder was the ledge of a wall. The wall was beautifully carved and painted with horses of all shapes, sizes, and colors. They were running free in a beach scene. I could never go to a beach. The heat would overwhelm me, but I did love to look at photos.

I made it to the top of the ladder, and there I was sitting on the wall, posing this way and that, and the photographer and crew were delighted with me. Then the wind became more ferocious, and I knew I was in danger the longer I sat on the wall. The wall wasn't deep enough to provide any kind of cover or protection. I looked down, which is something I wouldn't recommend, and I had to be around 25 feet from the ground. The vertigo from looking down-- combined with the wind roaring around me--was the worst mistake I could ever have made.

I fell from the wall. I shattered, and there was the stuff I was made of spreading all over the ground. Membrane, white, yolk, shell. "Oh, no, no, no!" screamed the photographer. "Someone call his emergency contact!"

I was fading fast. Kingsley and his men arrived to see the impossible puzzle that had been me. They would not be able to put me together again. They shed great tears, and to this day, at the bottom of the wall, you may pick up the scent of sulfur, and you will see the marker of my tragic fall. The tragedy of Humpty Dumpty.