For one hour, I sit for make-up and have a stylist choose my clothes.
The photographer adjusts the lights, the photo on the back of the gray cubicle wall, calls for wardrobe to remove a wrinkle from around my waist.
With an upward glance, he exchanges looks with the art director and then goes back to dressing the set.
For one minute (and another and another, until my smile is frozen in place), I think of how my children make me glow when they laugh.
I think to myself, "Make the eyes smile too."
The assistant holds my jump rope made of ethernet cable and gives my tired, aching hands a break from holding the heavy prop.
I am like the molded plastic chair in the corner, serving a purpose, telling a story.
A story without words, a story from within.
For one day, I am a model.