Finally I got inside the Piedmont Driving Club in Atlanta. They have an armed guard at the gate to keep riffraff like me out of there. For years I've driven by, marveling at what upper-crust mysterious rituals must go on behind those ivied walls. Once I was able to weasel my way into the Clubhouse at Augusta National Golf Club, but inside the Piedmont Driving Club – never.
The bad news is I had to stoop to becoming a male model to make it inside. This gig was a fund-raiser for Court Appointed Special Advocates (CASA). These are volunteers who work with juvenile court judges to help at-risk kids, so at least it was a good cause.
From the minute I agreed, I was asking myself, "How did you get yourself into this?" I have just got to learn how to say no.
First, I had to drive downtown to Guffey's, (which incidentally rhymes with Stuffy), an upscale men's haberdashery. Guffey's supplied the rags. There was certainly nothing in my closet that would have been worthy of a fashion show. I was shoehorned into a casual outfit and then a suit of the latest, lightest, Italian fabric. The prices were stratospheric, but luckily I wasn't there to shop. So far so good.
The day of the big shindig, the guard waved me in with barely a second glance. I guess he had been alerted that on a special event day any pedigree will do.
Okay, so far, I've been trying to avoid discussing the male model thing, but since it's the only point of the story, I'm stuck with it. Anybody who envies those glamorous fashion models you see in Elle or GQ hasn't been through a modeling gig.
First there were the run-throughs. "Stand on the blue tape!" "Walk slower." "Move your hips!" "Pivot at the pink tape!" And all that was just to get to the ballroom!
So we do a half-dozen tedious walk-throughs, first without music, then with it, then without narration, then with it.
ZZZZZZZZZ... boring...
Finally they packed us into a small room where – in front of strangers – I stripped to my skivvies and adorned myself with Guffey's finest, complete with pink tie. Then it was time to sit around for an hour-and-a-half while the revered guests gorged themselves. The appointed hour arrived. We were herded and lined up offstage. The music started. It was my turn. Suddenly, the runway looked as long as I-95 on a trip to Miami. All those people staring at me! Good thing they didn't feed me, cause I needed to throw up.
"And here we have Don Rizzo, a retired executive. He plays mediocre golf and tortures himself with yoga, but has a beautiful wife."
Down the runway I sashay, stopping periodically to pivot and show off all sides of my outfit, while the announcer describes my ensemble. The crowd was mostly women and they went wild, of course, whooping with pleasure at the perfect physique on display (this is the fantasy part).
With a grin rigidly applied to my locked-up puss, I avoided eye contact with the hundreds of eyeballs invading my privacy. Then, just like that, it was over. WHEW. We models hurriedly changed to our civilian clothes and were herded into an out-of-the way room where we toasted ourselves with champagne. They offered us lunch, but, never content unless I'm suffering, I was committed to a yoga torture session.
In the way of full disclosure, everyone at the Piedmont Driving Club could not have been more welcoming and courteous and they should be complimented for promoting a cause that helps children who are in serious need. (If I make nice maybe they'll invite me back sometime?)