I had finally made it. It was a dream come true. Every penny of the sixty bucks I'd paid Handsome Boy was up there on that runway. The crowd looked on with a combination of awe, love and admiration. And I could tell by the faces of my fellow models that was doing everything just right. I even caught a glimpse of my old instructor, Ted Bains and I could tell he had never been prouder. Everything had come full circle. I could now retire with dignity. But for a few moments I was a star. I felt like a cross between Samson, Valentino and for some reason Nancy Reagan. It was the single most beautiful experience of my young life with the exception of the moment when some fat guy threw his sneaker at me for no apparent reason. Before I knew it, security forces rushed the stage to protect me from my adoring fans. Someone once said that the worst thing about climbing a mountain is that once you reach to top there's nowhere else to go. Well, I don't know what the hell that means. I think it has something to do with camping. But one thing I do know is that for a single fleeting moment I had peaked. I was a winner. I felt like Secretariat the night he won the Indy 500.
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