Model Life

Growing up in Miami, life could sometimes take on fairy tale-like dimensions. Living in a place reeking of physicality and all things ‘beautiful’, one can be under the impression that life should resemble the picture perfect postcards sent by all those visitors love struck by the idea that is Miami. A network of islands connected by bridges, dotted by palm trees and framed by magnificent sunsets—a veritable Gan Eden on earth—or so it seems.
 
I remember being a small girl, pumping my legs as hard as I could, doing my best to get my swing to go as high as my small frame allowed. There I was in a park, overlooking Biscayne Bay. We lived in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood which consisted of a wide range of homes from modest one story houses all the way to million dollar properties. But on the ‘other side of the bay’- that’s where the ‘real’ houses were – private waterfront estates on lush gardens, owned by multimillionaires and Latin American superstars. And even though it was a mere boat drive, and about an eight minute drive away—we might as well have been separated by millions of miles.
 
So there I was, minding my own little girl business, trying to get my feet to touch the sky—when I suddenly notice some unusual activity on the lawn of the glass mansion across the bay. Out of the cotton cloud sky, a helicopter appears, proceeds to land on the lawn, and a man, dressed in full Arab regalia, flowing robes and all, begins to run towards it—with a  llama! Now here I was, a small child who had grown up, like all ‘normal’ American children, on a steady diet of TV and movies—and even I was impressed enough to stop the swing and take notice. I probably thought that when I grew up, I would also like to live in a house made entirely of glass, with a llama and a helicopter to call my own—the Arab, even back then, I knew I could do without.
 
Why did this memory crop up suddenly, completely unbidden? Because as I was looking at my kitchen, I began to fantasize about how nice it would be if my kitchen resembled a model kitchen in an Ikea magazine, and I suddenly realized that I was falling under the trance of the ‘model life’.
 
Living in Israel, we have been spared the constant deluge of catalogs that would arrive to our mailbox daily in Miami. Which is why, on an average day, my mind is usually not focused on living a ‘model life’. But the ideals portrayed in those glossy pages are harder to toss than the hard copy which ended up in the garbage. All those perfectly decorated rooms, in their perfectly decorated homes with the perfectly coutured and smiling angelic looking children have been singed in my subconscious and are harder to shake than those annoying perfume inserts in these same catalogs. Sometimes I actually focus on the absurdity of what they represent, and I realize that it has nothing to do with reality.
 
First of all, the mother is white, the father is black, and the kid is Chinese—that right there should tip one off that this not a ‘real’ family unit. Plus, the parents are perfectly coiffed, and are totally emaciated. They are sitting in some cafe in the French Riviera, and the kid, under two, is stain free and is not causing a scene in the middle of the restaurant. Where’s the angry looking waitress and the frazzled parents? The glowering patrons throwing annoying glances in the ‘parents’ direction? Where’s the overturned pasta bowl?
 
I admit—I am guilty as charged for falling prey to the fairy tale pictures painted by these companies. I look at these scenes of families sitting around a kitchen island, sipping daintily from fluted glasses, a big bowl of fruit prominently displayed, and they are all looking so carefree over a big block of cheese and some crackers. And I want to be in that picture drinking grape juice (don’t like wine) from fancy stemware and laugh at life over some crackers and cheese…and then– a cry pierces the air, because someone apparently had the indecency to do eye surgery on a totally unsuspecting doll, and I fall right back into reality with a thud—but not before I smash a nice piece of cracker under my foot as I run to restore order to the disorder. And it’s not even one of those fancy crackers at that.
 
Life, in general, is very far from the ‘model life’.
 
All these glossy catalogs feature the same theme over and over again. Superficial is good. Materialism is good. Beanbags made of denim are cool and so are dog couches. A house with a wrap around deck is a must (especially for those cheese and cracker soirees) and Adirondack chairs facing glorious sunsets are a plus. Ponds in the garden are better. But so are Manhattan apartments with big bay windows. If not, Range Rovers are better for you if you like Banana Republic. Huh? I know. It just doesn’t make sense.
 
Despite the fact that I intellectually understand that this ‘model’ life is far from reality, it is still hard to shake years of brainwashing by all these retail companies.
 

All those people featured in these fanciful perfect and iconic pictures are just models. As much as this is not my life, it isn’t theirs either. And yet, it’s easy to get sucked into the vortex of fantasy, as that niggling feeling of lack begins to ooze to the surface, like a festering wound of ingratitude. Why can’t I have crown molding in my bathroom? Why can’t I have meters and meters of endless granite gracing my counter tops? Why do Mr. and Mrs. Model get to have everything? Why? (did you ever realize that ‘why’ and ‘whine’  come from the same root)?
 
All this dwelling on the model life brought memories of someone I was acquainted with years ago. K.H. (name has been changed to protect the innocent—also, because I don’t really remember her name) had everything going for her. A college friend of two of my best friends at the time, she came to visit them in Miami. She was smart, refined, and had the fortune of being the object of affection of one of the wealthiest boys on campus, whose parents owned a very successful restaurant chain across America. In short—she had it all. But she wasn’t short. She was tall. And blond. And one day, she got ‘discovered’.
 
Now, this wasn’t uncommon in Miami, for in every other street corner in South Beach, there were modeling shoots going on. Or a movie was being filmed. Not only did we grow up watching Miami Vice (it wasn’t hard to find a lot of vice in Miami) but it was common to drive by as they were shooting a scene right in the middle of the street. So in a place that epitomizes the ‘model life’, there are always people looking for models to fuel this superficial existence.
 
This girl, who was smart, and attended one of the top universities in America—suddenly seemed to drop all the brains out of her head in the pursuit of a ‘model life’. And it wasn’t pretty, or glamorous, and at times, it was downright scary. In a couple of weeks she went from a confident, well rounded girl, to a frightened woman living in a seedy hotel in South Beach. I remember visiting her in the lobby, looking at this girl, who, in a mere couple of weeks, no longer resembled the person she had been. She was at the mercy of her ‘agent’, a less than noble character who held several girls ‘hostage’ since he was the one who ‘discovered’ them. What had attracted the notice of this man was no longer there, for her inner beauty was gone. She had thrown it all away to live a ‘model life’. And her life took very un-model proportions. I remember when her picture finally appeared in a magazine. I don’t even think it was 3×5—but this time I knew the story behind the picture, and there was nothing ‘ideal’ about it.
 
So I look around my house. A far cry from a ‘model’ house. There are shoes strewn in the entrance. Toys and books making their presence known from several corners. And even though we have a stainless steel fridge—it’s far from stainless! But I do see things that lead me to think that maybe I am living a ‘model’ life—a life modeled after Torah, and a life modeled on truth. That couch over there is where my son chants a tune from his Chumash. That table—yeah, the one with the glued-on, half-finished project—that becomes our Shabbat Mizbeiach, where we offer thanks to our Creator, not only on that special day, but every day of the week. Oops—watch where you sit! There might be some kosher juice stuck on the chair! The  counter top in my kitchen is where I knead my Challah, and I ‘model’ my family’s future. It is a home where there are brachot said, prayers prayed, Shabbat candles lit, Kiddush said—in short, it is a ‘model’ home, and an integral part of a ‘model’ life. And my husband and I may not be dining on the French Riviera with our 1.25 kids (does anyone know where the other .75 went?) , but we are blessed to be dining in Eretz Yisrael, on Osem crackers and Chalav Yisrael cheese, with our non stain resistant children who actually don’t care much for pasta. Baruch HaShem! We ARE living a model life!
 
The glass mansion, as far as I know, still sits on the bay in Miami, beckoning its admirers to worship the ‘model life’. Yet, in one second, a category five hurricane can shatter it into thousands of shards of glass. A life built on castles in the air cannot withstand life’s storms. But if we heed the Torah, and make it our model of how to live, then we will find ourselves living a blessedly, ideal, and indisputably—model life.