Page 1 of Love at First Sighting
Chapter 1
El
Once you put something on the internet, you can never take it back.
Which is why I think extremely hard about how I’m going to push this sponsorship.
I prop my tripod on a flat patch of ground and take a few establishing shots to guarantee the best-lit angles, especially the ones that’ll hide the boob sweat currently dripping down the center of my chest. For an athleisure company that boasts extreme moisture-wicking fabric, it’s leaving me extremely moist.
The sun’s setting behind the Santa Monica Mountains, casting an orange-and-pink glow onto the ocean behind me. It matches my brand’s color palette—blue (my sports bra and yoga pants), orange and pink (the sky), and tan (of the spray-on variety). I’m in a race against time to get these pictures before I lose the sun. I step in front of the camera and shoot a few test shots. The lighting looks good, my skin’s glowing, and all that’s left is the hard part—making it look like I’m not trying too hard.
Of course, I have to try alittle.No one climbs up to the topof a mountain at dusk, alone, with nothing but a tripod, camera, and water bottle, and does it effortlessly.
I hustle through a few poses.
A hand in my hair, laughing at an unhilarious patch of bramble—passable.
Taking a sip out of the trending, overpriced water bottle of the moment—but it blocks my face, and shows off mixed branding messages.
Facing the ocean, a hand on my hip, glancing back at the camera—this is weird and feels like a bad attempt at a Bond Girl pose.
I take one final shot, glancing down at my waistline like I’ve just slid into the best pair of buttery yoga pants, water bottle in my free hand—competing brand name turned around—and flash a smile to no one in particular. Bingo. This is the one. The right cocktail of casual and capitalism.
Anyone looking at the picture on Instagram would probably see a stunning model with sculpted curves, flawless makeup, and a sports bra that costs as much as a small mortgage. They’d see someone who has a perfect life. Yet, as I look at the smiling woman in the picture on the screen, allIsee is the lifelessness in her eyes that no filter can fix. She’s got no reason to want for anything. This is the picture-perfect life she’s always wanted, but it’s actually woefully underdeveloped.
But for the sake of Spinx yoga pants, lifeless and plastic is more than good enough. In fact, it might be exactly what their brand is looking for. I transfer the photos from the DSLR to my phone and run a few tried-and-true filters over them to send to my marketing contact.
I draft up a caption—a Thoreau quote and somethinginspirational about how these yoga pants make me feel closer to nature—apply the proper spon-con labels and tags, and hit send. Now all I have to do is wait for their blessing and I’m free to post.
Even a few years ago, there was a thrill to every post, especially as I migrated from my child beauty pageant era to my lifestyle influencer era. Brand transitions are never easy, and the transition from the done-up “Toddler in Tiara” life my mom foisted upon me to “I’m My Own Woman, I Swear to God” felt near impossible sometimes. They’re even harder when you have to face them alone.
As I open up Instagram, my feed refreshes and a post from Alaka-Sam floats to the top.
In theory, nothing about a borderline-skeletal grown man in leather pants and a sapphire-sequined pirate shirt should make my stomach knot, but it does. He poses in his dressing room at Houdini House, a swanky and private Los Angeles magic-themed nightclub, fashioned like a knock-off Haunted Mansion. Los Angeles, Vegas, and children’s parties are possibly the only places where magicians are cool.
He’s dabbing moisturizer onto his alarmingly sharp cheekbones, and the caption reads,Magic Is Skin Deep. Now he’s got hisownsponsorship with Epidermeé cosmetics and doesn’t need me. Of course, I can’t be too upset. While he might have been mostly interested in me for my sponsorship connections,Iwas mostly interested in him for his open invite to Houdini House. A few months ago,everyoneand their mother wanted an in there, and I had to be the It Girl. But the second their marketing associate DMed him on Instagram, there was no need to keep dating me.
Needless to say, I was not devastated to be dumped by aman named Alaka-Sam, but the post feels like a particularly harsh blow to my ego nonetheless.
I do not hit like on his post.
Instead, I close up shop and begin the trek down to my car now that the sun has dipped behind the horizon.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve climbedwayout of my way to take these pictures. I broached quite close to a rusty gate thatmighthave saidNo Trespassing, but the faded letters look more likeNo Assat this point. But if I simply went to the populated overlook near the highway, I’d look like a tourist, and that’s not part of the brand.
Above me, the sky turns a deep cerulean, with twinkling stars that look like the face glitter I wore to Coachella a few months ago. My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I slide it out. I’m well used to my notifications popping off, full of comments from my fans, fair-weather friends, and fraudulent bots. Usually, they’re full of affectionate emojis, ads for suspicious clothing giveaways, and pleas to “please come to” whatever country happens to want me that day.
Today, at the very least, there’s a text from my mom.
Mom (7:42 pm):Contractor said the kitchen would look better with a backsplash. Can you send $
Our green-and-white ping-pong of a conversation is scarcely full of love and care. The last few messages aren’t much different from this one. I wonder if the repetition is really that lost on her. There’s no inquiry into how I’m doing or desire for a catch-up. Just a favor. Afinancialfavor. I shouldn’t be shocked, and yet the pinpricks of pain stab in my chest. This is how it’s been for a long time.
She’d been delighted when a modeling scout hawked me down at age five at the Fashion Fair Mall in Fresno. Once the scout, and ultimately the photographers, saw dollar signs in my cherubic cheeks and big doe eyes, so did she. It was the least I could do to support a single mom. If my smiles paid our bills, who was I to complain? But I think the glamour shots and filters hid the girl I was underneath, the one who craved a normal relationship with her mother. Now my brand projects a girlboss who doesn’t need anyone. She can handle anything on her own.
It’s always beenon her own.
I have more—shampoos, fitness equipment, exclusive invites—than most people could ever dream of.
