You guys, I was so excited to go to Fashion Week. It was, like, the biggest thing that had ever happened to me. Bigger than grad school, or moving to China for a bunch of years, or that time I saved a kid from getting hit by a car. But it turned out to be a lot different than I expected.
Of course I dressed up for it. Everyone dresses up for it! I wore all my best, most chic stuff. I was totally hot shit.
Everyone has so much expensive shit, you guys! The place was an army of PS1 bags and tall, tall women with perfect hair. My sample sale skills, epic as they are, can not compete with the ability to pay retail for current season McQueen.
Before going to Fashion Week, I assumed that everyone there would be fashion industry professionals.
But in addition to the industry professionals and famous people for hire, there were a surprising number of random tourists at the tents. I kept winding up in line behind out-of-town visitors in cocktail dresses who’d gotten their tickets because a friend of a friend worked in PR and they decided to go to Fashion Week instead of seeing a Broadway show.
Sometimes I would get an invitation with a seating assignment. Sometimes my seat would even be in the front row!
But usually I was in “standing room” in the back.
When you’re in the “standing room” section, you have to wait in line to get in. Sometimes you wait for an hour, and then the PR lady shuts the doors as soon as the person in front of you gets in.
Before I went to Fashion Week, I figured all the really important shows would be in the same place. But it turns out a bunch of the cool designers decamped to Milk Studios and random chic warehouses. To cover those shows and the ones at the tents (back when NYFW was at Bryant Park), one must either be important enough to get a car service, or be able to run very fast. This was me:
I also thought there would be so many swag bags and free stuff for everybody at Fashion Week! But a lot of the time the gift bags are just for the front row.
But sometimes I do get one! And there’s a lipstick and a travel-sized bottle of Moroccan Hair Oil!
When I am finally given a chance to do a real interview, I anticipate Pulitzer-levels of brilliance coming out of my mouth. I’m pretty sure I sound like this.
Everyone knows Fashion Week is full of the highest of high heels, but I am a total pro at high heels. I’ve worn them nonstop since I was 14. I figured I could wear the big girl shoes no problem.
But after a couple hours it was like.
Of course, there are party invitations. I got a few.
I should have gone. I meant to go. I’m told networking happens at them. But somehow I wound up like this instead:
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