It hurts. We would know seeing how we’ve been turned down oh, at least 25 times by the entire editorial staff of Esquire. “We” are a pair of former luxury lifestyle magazine editors and we’re about as girly as it gets: We both store our Kate Somerville and Peter Thomas Roth products in the fridge; prance around in frilly skirts and sundresses, and log way too much time in the spa sauna. But strangely, for whatever reason (daddy issues?) we get all sorts of turned on by stories about cigars, fast-cars, and two-button suits.
We both grew up stealing our father’s Esquires, precociously studying the pages like some sort of foreign portal into our future husbands’ worlds. In our minds, the publication is like the Bible of the babe. And we wanted (still want) in. No, like, literally. We want to be actually on the pages for their entire subscriber base to see.
Look, just like that whiskey, these girls come with an Esquire stamp of approval. What career groupie wants to watch the show from the nosebleeds?
Since we’re not quite lingerie models or Spanish pop tarts, we figured the best route was with our witty, borderline brilliant prose.
So it began.
There was this gem:
Camping has never ranked highly among haute hobbies, and the last time either of us attempted to rough it in the great outdoors was a high school field trip that involved sneaking into the boy’s cabin.
Nevertheless, we’d like to swap our patent heels for L.L. Bean boots, channel our inner Lewis + Clark for Esquire and find out what goes on in the mind of the rarest of species: the urban woodsman.
You’ve met him: he’s scruffy, wears flannel, and smells roughly like a Pine-Sol bottle. Yet, as fashion editors, we’re less than versed in his rogue modes. We think spending a day in their habitat – tent and all – will help us gain an appreciation for who this stud is, while offering insight into a new trend: urban camping.
Andrea Kasprzak + Megan Baldwin
We did, however, manage to get this on-trend story picked up and turned into a two-month feature in Men’s Journal. Still, it was no Esquire. It was like the editorial equivalent of sleeping with the class president while day dreaming of fantasy boning the homecoming king.
It took us some time to recover from the sting, but eventually we followed up with this one: