I posted one of my little brother''s stories. So now, I guess it is time for one of my own. I am about a five on a scale to ten. I was short (five foot six), weighed all of 126 pounds, red hair, freckles and 24 years old, stationed in Hawaii. So we had a long weekend, so I went to the beach. Now I have to mention the Irish Genes run strong in my family. So I only went to the beach early in the AM, or after 4 PM. So one night down at Waikiki Beach I was strolling along right next to the water. A woman in a bikini, slender build, nice figure, and probably around mid thirties yells out to me:

"Do you Model?"

I broke out laughing. No one, not one single person in my whole life, not even my Ex Fiancé ever even suggested I could model. Even my Mom never used more than the word: "Cute" to describe me. In fact, no one had ever referred to me as Handsome. I was just the average guy for that time period (mid seventies).

So when I stopped laughing, I said:

"No, ma'am. Never modeled."

"Why not? You have such beautiful ankles."

This time I did not laugh. I just stared at her. I had no words.

She laughed.

"Oh, I see. You don't know what pretty ankles look like."

I pointed to her bronzed toned calves that tapered to perfectly pedicured feet.

"Like those?"

She laughed again, thanked me for the compliment- patted her beach towel and asked me to sit down.

I may have been confused, but I was in my mid twenties, with no girlfriend. I sat down.

"I teach Art at the University. The most difficult things to draw, are: Hands, Feet, and ankles. You have the perfect flow from Toe to calf. Not to muscular, not to flat, your feet, ankles, and lower calf are perfectly proportional. I would love to have you Model for my Class."

"I am in the Army. Not sure I can get off during a weekday. My Company Commander would have to let me go."

"What's his name? How do I reach him?"

So I told her. We chatted a bit more, and I went for a swim. When I got out of the water...she was gone.

Monday rolls around. We are over on the Parade Ground practicing setting up the Mortar for a Competition coming up. Here comes the First Sergeant, my Platoon Leader, and the Company Commander. Yikes! What did I do wrong?

The Old Man says:
"Hughes, I just got a call from the Dean of the Art School. She wants you to come Model for her Class. She told me that they pay $100 bucks for an hour. I told her you could come down for an hour on Thursday. Why didn't you tell us you were a Model. "

I saw my whole Platoon staring at me like I had two heads.

"Sir, I never modeled. She said I had pretty feet."

Well, that was the wrong thing to say in front of forty guys where the average age was about 20.

"Well, the Colonel said that this will help build some good will with the local community, so he said I could let you go for one afternoon. So go Model on Thursday."

I went. And it turns out Modeling for an Art Class is hard. No wonder they paid so much. You have to stand in the same position, without moving, for 30 minutes. Then a ten minute break, and you stand in the same position again for thirty more minutes. You can't even shift your weight to ease up on your calf or foot, because that throws the Artists off their game.

I could only hold a position for five or six minutes. She tried to show me how to balance myself so I wouldn't move- or change positions. After the hour was up, both her, and her Class were pretty much fed up with me. She paid me and said: "It's such a waste. If you would just learn to pose, you could have a career as a foot model."

The CO, Top and the LT, all wanted details. A few days later, we got sketches of my feet, ankles, and calf from the School. They posted them on the Day Room Bulletin Board. It took months for my new nickname: "Legs" to fade away. Along with the catcalls, and whistles from the Bay when I took my socks off.

Turns out, I am not a Model.