Kathy Ireland takes my breath away. She walks like she’s floating which affirms me that all those years on the runway must’ve paid off. She’s nothing shorter than like 7’4” or something and despite having children, her waist is smaller than the width of my pinkie.
But her stunning looks and Amazonian height, doesn’t compare to her heart of gold. 24 karat gold.
When faced with meeting a supermodel, you really don’t want to look like a country bumpkin. So I picked out an outfit and texted it to Matt. And Jasmine. And Brianna. They all approved and gave two thumbs up for my conservative yet modern look.
However, no one took into account the weather. It has been a record breaking heatwave in Southern California and despite my water consumption and make-shift paper fan, I was—shall I say—glistening.
Lesson #1: Supermodels don’t sweat.
While Kathy smiled gracefully and snapped pictures with guest looking uber-fab, I dabbed my face and sipped on water. Proof I’ll never be camera-ready and au natural.
The time came for Kathy to introduce me and despite my butterflies, I stood up and adjusted my blazer before heading to the stage. I noticed my olive colored t-shirt revealing perspiration and nearly died. Note to self, I said in my head, don’t take off your jacket!
There was a slight applause as I approached the podium to share. Within minutes the laughter and warm smiles on the face of the teen mothers made me feel like I was home—but home in the third layer of Dante’s inferno. Every passing second created a new bead of perspiration on my brow. Within fifteen minutes I felt sweat stream down my face, down my neck, and down my back.
I felt like a baptist preacher on a Sunday morning in the south. If I didn’t have sweatmarks on my shirt I probably would’ve taken off my jacket and thrown it on the ground for a rivoting ending or rousing call to arms. But I didn’t. I ended in a prayer and swam off stage in a pool of my perspiration.
Lesson #2: Supermodels are kind.
Before I could backtroke off stage, I was stopped and embraced by Kathy. Not an disingenuous LA hug, but a real, full frontal hug. And then I died. Why? Well, because my last impression with Kathy was that of a pig on a turning roast. Awesome. Just awesome.
Lesson #3: God doesn’t care if you’re a supermodel.
To the 150 inner-city teen moms in attendance, they didn’t care about my sweat or my cream colored blazer or my gold shimmer eyeshadow. In fact, they most likely had no clue who I was. And that’s the way God wanted it.
It wasn’t about some girl who looked perfectly put-together. It was about God using a girl much like them to humbly talk to them about the plan God had for their life. And do it while struggling to see notes through dripping sweat.
Lesson #4: Supermodels just do it.
If God is calling you to do something, just do it. With a crying kid on your hip, with a drink in your hand, with a bottle of water at the gym, or [as in my case] with sweatmarks. If you have stories to share, bust ’em out. Don’t leave me hanging… 🙂
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