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box really is a human art installation, as it purports to be, then am I the performer here, and they my audience? The thought is sort of thrilling.

Not-So-Model Behavior

    The first time I entered the fabled halls of the Condé Nast building—home of The New Yorker, Vogue , and Vanity Fair —it was not for an interview or a magazine assignment, but to get my picture taken for Lucky magazine. Someone knew someone who worked at Lucky and thought I would be a good candidate for the magazine’s “real people modeling.” (Apparently the magazine-slash-shopping-guide features both “models” and “real people.” As if the former is not a member of the latter.) It was the summer after my college graduation, and I was living with my parents in Connecticut desperately trying to get an editorial job within those fabled halls. Or anywhere, for that matter. When this peculiar opportunity presented itself to me, I thought, why not? I mean, who doesn’t want to be a “real person” for a day?
    If nothing else, it was reprieve from my fruitless job search and an excuse to get out of the house. Before the meeting, I spent an embarrassing amount of time orchestrating my outfit. I’d have to wear heels, of course, but I’d wear flats for the walk from the train station. I settled on skinny(ish) jeans—thiswas 2004, so that version of “skinny jeans” was what would now be called “straight leg”—a loose-fitting tank, and a long, layered necklace that draped to my belly button. My mom dropped me off at the station, and while on the train, I consulted my CoverGirl compact a few too many times.
    When I emerged from Grand Central and felt that first subway grate blow its hot breath through my blonde hair, I thought, This is my Marilyn moment . Never mind the wet garbage smell. With that, I strutted up East Forty-second, one foot meaningfully placed in front of the other, popping my hips to the side like Tyra had taught me on Top Model . I was certain she would think I was fierce.
    When I arrived at the famous address—4 Times Square—I hid around a corner to switch my shoes and blot my sweaty face. Once my complexion finally transitioned from dripping to dewy, I popped on my pumps and headed inside. The women in the building were just as I’d imagined: tiny, impeccably dressed, terrifying. I was feeling less model-like by the minute. Why didn’t they just cast people from their own lobby? While waiting outside the model booker’s office, I thumbed through a copy of Lucky , the only magazine they had. A few other women were waiting as well. I tried to figure out if they were models, “real people,” or just regular real people. The booker eventually emerged and called my name. She looked startled as I stood. Oh god , I thought, it’s that bad? I don’t even qualify as a “real person”? I told her that yes, I was Lilibet, and reached out my hand. “Oh!” she said, shaking it, “I thought you were a real model!” These words nearly knocked me out of my pumps. I tried to mask my elation. “Oh,” I said, swatting an imaginary fly in front of me, “I don’t know about that.”
    After quitting track in college, I gained a lot of weight—forty pounds, to be exact—while studying abroad. “I thought the food was bad in London,” my friends would say after spending their semesters enjoying crepes in Paris and fettucciniin Florence. “Well,” I’d tell them, my inflated arms crossed self-consciously, “Clearly I found plenty to eat.” I think, more than anything, my body was in shock. I went from eating like an anemic squirrel and running more than sixty miles a week to spending six months waddling across a pub to fetch another murky stout and a second basket of mayonnaise-covered fries. By that summer after graduation, I had lost most of the weight, but I still