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By the ripe age of 21, every woman should be able to undo their own bra. As young girls fumbling our way through puberty, we are handed down an age-old technique for bra removal. This little behind-the-back gimmick had always served me well. There was nary a locker room or station wagon backseat that I shied away from. With 21 years of practice and backseats under my belt, I was not prepared for this level of performance anxiety. Then again, agreeing to get naked in front of a captive audience isn’t something a person normally prepares to do.

It was balmy that spring day, my junior year. I found myself in a mismatching bra and panty set perched on top of a shaky wooden box. The clock hanging on the whitewashed studio wall had just registered 3pm. The class hadn’t even begun and I was already regretting my decision to forgo the bikini wax I had scheduled earlier that day. Mr. Beloi, the professor for intermediate drawing, was awaiting the undivided attention of his bouncy students. I watched as he stood in exasperated silence, all the while fighting off the waves of nausea that were wracking my exposed body.

Each student was stationed next to a large metal easel, where they busied themselves with pulling out erasers, border tape and charcoal pencils. As each work station was completed, the students began shifting their focus to the girl poised at the center of the room.

“Class this is our new model, Lauren,” Mr. Beloi announced with disinterest. “She is going to be sitting for us today and if all goes well, the rest of the semester. Now let’s begin with 15 minutes of free sketching.”

And without another word, he turned from the classroom, flashing me a feeble thumbs-up before he strode out of the class. In an instant, I felt my nearly exposed chest begin to tighten and my legs go weak. It was as if all the air was being sucked out of the room. I couldn’t breathe.

All 24 pairs of eyes were now gazing at me, filled with a kind of benign interest. It was as if they had already begun the process of mentally undressing me. I took a deep breath, remembering that I had chosen this, and with twisted arms began working the back clasp of my bra. It took every ounce of strength not to sprint to the bathroom and choke down the emergency joint I had stashed in my change purse. But there was no turning back now, nothing left to do but override all of my inhibitions and wonder how the hell I got here.

My desire to become a figure model had developed over the course of my college career. I used my budding interest in art history as an excuse to spend time coolly lounging around the art building. Most afternoons, I would prop myself up against its limestone exterior and sit for hours, sometimes studying but mostly just hanging out hoping to absorb some of the residual “culture” the art students exhaled from their hourly smokes. The art building’s grounds were littered with the college’s off beat students. They fascinated me, swaggering around with their eccentric fashion and loud styles. While they were busy studying art, I was preoccupied with studying them.

I knew I wasn’t like the art students. I had no retro wardrobe, ballsy haircut, or artistic talent to speak of. I couldn’t discuss the significance of the Cubist movement over a glass of boxed wine or wax poetic about the varying grades of canvas. I enjoyed art and could analyze it and appreciate it, but I couldn’t ooze it like those kids did.

I had always gone through college as a self-identified “floater,” the kind of girl who could blend in with any crowd. I spent time downing beers and having late-night fast food binges with both sculptors and socialites, and for the most part it was an ideal situation. I had twice the social calendar of anyone on campus, not to mention twice the dates. The problem was that I wanted a role that was a little more defining. I wanted to have a style like the art kids, one that announced my personality to the world.

All over campus I was known for my laid-back and fun-loving vibe. I was that granola-eating outdoors girl who also loved her 4 1/2-inch heels. It was a deadly combination of fun and fearless. Who knows if it was a sense of balance or the Libra in me, but it was that same attitude that helped me win over almost anyone. With all that going on, I still wanted a way of showing people what I stood for. It was that need that landed me center stage on that wooden crate, ready to make my debut.

Posted all over campus, the neon orange flyers advertised for “true individuals, those willing to bare it all for art.” At my best friend’s insistence, I responded. Within a week’s time, I was perched up on top of that wooden box scared as hell. I wasn’t sure what my sorority friends would think or if my art friends would be able to look me in the eye after; all I knew was that this was my chance to really make a statement.

The class was silent and I had been given the signal. Now was the time to just let go and finally show the world what I was all about. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let it all drop away. When I opened them again, I knew I had survived. My legs didn’t give out, and my breathing was slow and steady. Across from my box was a large floor-to-ceiling mirror. I stared at my naked body, transfixed by the unreal scene unfolding in front of me. I saw an average girl doing the unthinkable—posing nude—all for a chance at some free art and a mere $8.50 an hour. The class, totally unfazed by my nakedness, was working hard to bend the arches of their charcoal to match my backlit form. It felt amazing; for the first time, our roles were reversed and they were the ones studying me.

When the class finished, a girl I had often sat by outside the building came up to offer her congratulations. “You are so bad ass for doing that. I would never have been able to do it,” she said. At the time, I just shrugged and smiled. Only now, looking back on that moment when I dared to stand naked in front of 24 strangers, do I realize how honest that act really was for me. For that one instant in time, I threw caution to the wind and my clothes to the floor. At 21, I had realized that anyone can manage to take off a bra, but it takes something extra to be able to strip everything away.

Lauren Schmidt is a 25-year-old Chicago native who loves pared-down living, cereal and unexpected fun. When not handcuffed to her laptop writing, she is either out on a long run or enjoying good times with good people.