That Runway Prance
By Steve Carr
‘Tis the season for Sunday evening award shows, although one has to look hard for “seasons” in the dead of an Idaho winter.
Ostensibly, we watch to see if our favorite movies and television shows, and their stars, win the big award. But I know, and maybe you do too, that we really watch to see the beautiful people on the red carpet and maybe catch a glimpse backstage. Am I a blossoming metrosexual? Maybe not—too much work. But I’m comfortable enough admitting I can appreciate a custom-made suit or gown on a healthy body.
Perhaps it’s different for me, you see, for I’m a bit of a connoisseur. I, too, was a red carpet star once upon a time.
I wore a purple denim jacket with matching bell-bottom pants and striped shirt—the latest in 1972 high fashion. Big, bold, bright stripes of many colors—Joseph’s coat had nothing on me. I was the only boy among a clutch of starstruck, fashion-minded, wannabe models. Hot pants and high heels ruled the runway. Barelegged girls dressed me backstage, folding my massive shirt collar over my purple jacket.
Gently guided to and through the curtain into the spotlight, I reeled down the Astroturf runway—a narrow peninsula stretching into the fifth row of the junior high auditorium. I didn’t hear (or chose not to hear) the catcalls from the football team. I was a fashion model. I was dressed by girls in hot pants and mini-skirts. Their fingers ran through my hair as they pulled and sprayed and made it stand in unnatural ways.
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