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"  I grew up desperately wishing I could be a model because it would have confirmed something I didn&amp;#039;t believe: that I was pretty. My life took another path, but\u2014I&amp;#039;m ashamed to admit\u2014I&amp;#039;m pushing 34 and still craved that external validation. Luckily for me and my therapist, I have a chance to participate in what will be my version of Fantasy Baseball Camp: the Miami Style Showcase, part of the city&amp;#039;s annual fashion week, in which I will get to walk with real models. Fierce!  START TO FINISH  I begin by taking lessons with NYC-based catwalk coach Mac Folkes. He trains those newly signed to Manhattan&amp;#039;s major modeling agencies, as well as contestants in the Ford Supermodel of the World competition, for their runway debuts. I assume, wrongly, that professional strutting requires only perfect posture and the ability to walk a straight line. But no\u2014it is so much more. For one thing, there&amp;#039;s a reason models are always leaning back as if blown by a stiff wind. &amp;quot;When your body is angled, more light hits you, which maximizes the garments,&amp;quot; Folkes says. &amp;quot;And that&amp;#039;s what you&amp;#039;re supposed to be doing out there\u2014showcasing the clothes.&amp;quot;  And since you don&amp;#039;t want anything to distract from what you&amp;#039;re wearing, you can&amp;#039;t just meander as if you&amp;#039;re out for an afternoon stroll. To maintain a tight line, feet need to travel directly one in front of the other, which wrings hips like a wet washcloth. Some catwalkers, to create a more distinctive walk, pick up their knees and stomp down the runway like Lipizzan stallions, but Folkes and I agree that I just need to get down and back without making a fool of myself. He tells me to imagine strings pulling the top of my head and to keep my shoulders back, but relaxed, so that my ramrod posture seems natural. My fingertips should lightly brush the sides of my thighs, with my hands at ease: &amp;quot;No lobster claws or like you&amp;#039;re clutching a hamburger,&amp;quot; he says.  After two hours of traversing a dance studio, bringing &amp;quot;intensity to the eyes and toes,&amp;quot; as per Folkes (this entails focusing hard on a point in the distance and flicking my feet forward), I&amp;#039;m hot and out of breath, as if I&amp;#039;ve completed a cardio workout. And the following morning, when I hop out of bed, I have a pain in my hip so severe, I limp around for more than a month. I&amp;#039;m quite sure this has never happened to Agyness.  My editor is clear that I&amp;#039;m not to starve myself into a twig; the idea is for me to go to Miami as me. But this assignment requires boatloads of confidence, and I&amp;#039;ll feel better about myself if, instead of sacking out on the couch as usual, I familiarize myself with the gym. My preparations also include amping up my fitness routine.  I start jogging four to five times a week at my local Equinox, which is good and bad. That hip discomfort? Turns out that pounding the treadmill, not the catwalk practice floor, ruptures cartilage in my hip socket and creates a stress fracture, which goes undiagnosed until after the show. I end up on crutches for six weeks, followed by six weeks of physical therapy. At least I&amp;#039;m in good company. Supermodel Erin Wasson broke her foot while running at a shoot, so my injury feels like a perverse badge of honor.  EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED  Julian Chang and Nicolas Felizola are the two lucky designers who&amp;#039;ll be blessed with my services. They&amp;#039;ve agreed upon the same hair and makeup look, and they conveniently share a fashion aesthetic\u2014short and tight. At the casting, eyeing the wardrobe options and my mini-miniskirted fellow models, I consider bringing a flask to opening night.  During the days before major shows, designers schedule fittings and hair and makeup tests. This concept, however, seems to be new to Miami Fashion Week. For one thing, Chang&amp;#039;s clothes haven&amp;#039;t arrived (I&amp;#039;ll end up trying on his royal blue satin shirtdress two hours before I have to model it). And while they are entirely personable and seem glad to have me and the team there, neither Chang nor Felizola appears all that invested in how their models look from the neck up. I&amp;#039;ve heard of designers bringing pages from art books to their trials or insisting that a shade of lipstick perfectly match a piece of fabric from the collection. Here, the only directive is &amp;quot;lots of lashes.&amp;quot;  Given free rein, the infinitely patient Renato Almeida, whom Miami Fashion Week sponsor Shiseido has sent as the key makeup artist, creates a sheer, tan face that will suit the summery clothes and, even better, looks good on me. He dusts bronzer all around my eyes and up to the creases, adds strips of fake lashes and tons of black mascara, dusts on some rose beige blush, and finishes with a sparkly brown lip gloss. Since the dresses are so skimpy, Almeida will later dab waterproof foundation onto my legs with a sponge to cover the bruises and discoloration. Aside from the small problem of not yet having anything to wear in one of the shows tomorrow, I&amp;#039;m ready.  GO TIME  The presentation is scheduled for 9:30 p.m., but I&amp;#039;m told to arrive for rehearsal at 4 p.m. By six, neither designer has appeared, and the run-through is canceled. They finally turn up around 7:30, and I get outfitted (Chang&amp;#039;s dress fits, amen). And sustain another injury: While I&amp;#039;m getting my hair done, a curling iron sears the tender flesh along my hairline. (Many thanks to the on-scene fire department superintendent who tries to comfort me by saying that my injury is so minor, &amp;quot;it&amp;#039;s not even what we&amp;#039;d really consider a burn.&amp;quot;) That&amp;#039;s not the only indignity. At one point, I&amp;#039;m standing in a thong and stilettos in full view of the world. (This is not an overstatement. Unlike the backstages of New York/Paris/Milan, everyone from photographers to boyfriends to people off the street is allowed in the Miami dressing area.) Exhausted and embarrassed, I step onto the catwalk (actually a cement floor) at close to 10:30 p.m.  When I did TV for the first time, on a local morning news program, I was so nervous that my mouth dried out and my lips stuck to my teeth. But then the man who went on air before me, who&amp;#039;d won a viewer contest to deliver the weather report, played a kazoo and kept standing in the wrong place. After watching him, I knew I could do better, or at least not worse, and my lips unglued.  That wasn&amp;#039;t the big leagues, and neither is this. One telltale sign: When I demonstrate my walk for Felizola backstage, he tells me to pause at the end of the runway and pose with my hand on my hip. I&amp;#039;d done the same thing during my first lesson with Folkes, who stifled a laugh and told me that the move was strictly varsity and better left to Gisele and Naomi. &amp;quot;Most girls look ridiculous and like they&amp;#039;re trying too hard to be `fashion,&amp;#039;&amp;quot; he says of the hip thrust.  But clich\u00E9 seems to be the name of the game here in South Beach. Of course, there&amp;#039;s the expected drama (one woman puts on the wrong designer&amp;#039;s outfit and ends up missing her turn completely), disorganization (don&amp;#039;t get me started), and curiosity about what really happens on Project Runway. But it&amp;#039;s also sweet at times, such as when one African-American model asks me, in awe, if I know Pat McGrath, the legendary makeup artist she &amp;quot;dreams of working with.&amp;quot; Yep, I do\u2014I&amp;#039;ve interviewed her a number of times, as a matter of fact. And countless others tell me how much they like ELLE and how amazing they think it is that I work there.  So here comes embarrassing admission number two: I&amp;#039;ve been so busy envying the insane bodies of these girls (and of pretty much every model I come across) that I&amp;#039;ve belittled my other accomplishments (I do have a pretty cool job, for one) just because I didn&amp;#039;t win the genetic lottery. And about those remarkable figures: I&amp;#039;m at least a decade older than most of them; it seems ridiculous to be comparing my shape with that of a 22-year-old. Seriously, Megan, grow up.  I make it down the runway and back twice without incident. Felizola even has me open his segment of the program in a yellow and white, vaguely peasant top-ish minidress. I look very severe in the pictures\u2014I was so focused on not slipping (as one girl did earlier) and on the strap of my shoe, which broke right before I hit the runway (not entirely shocking, since show footwear is built to be worn once), that I forgot to relax my face. My mind is otherwise a blank, but just as Folkes promised, after all those hours of practice, my body knows what to do (intensity in the eyes and feet\u2014you got it).  I&amp;#039;m not going to pretend that I feel like an ugly duckling turned swan. When I review the photos later, I see only my stomach and hips, which seem enormous. But, just maybe, I don&amp;#039;t care as much. What modeling taught me is that even if I were perfectly suited to the catwalk, the catwalk isn&amp;#039;t for me. No offense to my Miami compatriots, but my life, no matter what my appearance, is so much more interesting than the days I spent trying to be you. And as far as pretty, I think I did a pretty damn good job. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.elle.com/beauty/a9475/walk-the-line-261371/>