In my twenties I was grabbed out of secretarial pool working in the 'rag trade.' "You'll be perfect" they said. In the heat of the summer I would stand on a wooden box in pantyhose a slip and underwear, while they pinned on and altered women's wool suits and office wear. A living mannequin, that they would jab with pins. Often they would say things like, "you need to lose some there, and poke at my rear end", as if I could slice parts of my body off.
Then I would have to walk around in these clothes, inside their showroom in high heels, in wool suits and nylon and acrylic blouses, dripping with sweat. Uck, three months total until I quit.