Don’t you ever wish you could just go grocery shopping with fat hater Karl Lagerfeld and professional sexy person Cara Delevingne? Honestly, that sounds like my nightmare. You just know Karl would smack your hand every time you tried to put something better than kale in your cart, and Cara would be posing in the basket tearing into a Big Mac, resting a large order of fries on her six pack abs. Disaster.
But that’s basically what happened at the Chanel Fall 2014 runway show. High fashion grocery shopping.
And so, we present Karl Grocery Shopping: a Fan Fiction.
The Grand Palais la supermarche, Paris.
Karl is hard at work planning a dinner party for fifteen of his closest friends. Everyone loved his show in Dallas, so he’s making “authentic” his life mantra for 2014. Apparently, “regular folks” (he learned this term at the Dallas-Love airport) frequently attempt to cull their crushing suburban boredom by inviting friends over to eat. Like, actual food.
Karl, obviously, hasn’t set a snakeskin booted foot in a supermarket in over ten years. Karl takes his sustenance from green juice, catered crudité, and the occasional macaroon. In the spirit of authenticity, he has commissioned the Grand Palais to be stocked with average French groceries so he can shop in an environment free from store brand packaging and people that don’t fit in Chanel. He’s invited Cara Delevingne, for backup. Cara likes to pretend to be working class, eating McDonald’s and generally making Karl wish her sister Poppy was young enough to model instead.
“Karl, we brought you something.” Lindsey Wixson pops up from behind a cheese display (like anyone eats cheese in Chanel) and hands over a shopping bag that is, horrifyingly, made of plastic. This is why there should never be models from Kansas, Karl thought.
“They’re sneakers! So cute. So normcore.” Cara wiggles an eyebrow and Karl tries not to faint.
Karl stares forlornly at the brightly colored rubber soles and squeaky white leather. For a moment, he wishes he didn’t have to be so whimsical all the time. He would give all the hair ribbons in the world for next year’s It Girl to be a nice, responsible princess instead of this horde of Euro teens in ripped denim. Like Kate Middleton, without those fat ankles and panty hose.
But no, the youth worship Cara, and that Jourdan Dunn with the boobs. Letting them Instagram themselves backstage is the only thing keeping Chanel in the same orbit as Wang and Wu. It’s the French revolution all over again. Expensive tee shirts. Cotton. Sneakers. Let them eat cake, Karl thought, sadly dropping a box of chocolate biscuits repackaged in dove grey Chanel branded paper into his cart.
I am cool, I am relevant, I am edgy, Karl whispered to himself. He invited a Kardashian to this party, of all people. What more did people want from him? To start casting short people? It was too much.
After several minutes spent agonizing over the color of edamame vs. snap peas, he wheeled his cart toward the fourteen year old Czech model acting as checkout girl. Her lips were painted bright red, despite Karl’s specific request for all store models to maintain dewy skin and bare lips like “real girls.” Glowering, he began to remove every single item added by that Midwestern Lindsey Wixson. Cheddar cheese? Seriously? Surely, authenticity didn’t require him to serve that American abomination.
Behind him, he could hear someone belting Disney songs off key in a British accent. He wheeled around to see Cara, singing and pushing his worst nightmare in a shopping cart. Rihanna, barbecue chips in one hand and champagne in the other, snapping selfies, and ashing a blunt on a lavender Chanel suit.
Once Rihanna arrives, there is no getting rid of her until she wants to leave. Karl is about to kiss his perfectly curated party goodbye. It’s not quite the catastrophe as having Miley Cyrus sit front row, but it changes everything.
Resignedly, he adds an extra fruit plate and two fifths of cognac to the register. Her entourage alone adds six guests. It’s no wonder Americans are so miserable if this is what they do to relax.
Cara Delevingne is the first to arrive, and she is wearing torn leggings. Karl tries not to fume that his brand new kid leather leggings are now full of holes. As if it’s not bad enough that, having declared Cara his muse, Karl must now work neon sneakers and spandex into the spring collection. It’s like she’s mocking him. First Fendi, now this.
This party is a nightmare. Choupette ate half the crudites, and everyone in this place knows she is not supposed to have non-organic veggies. Only a slob like Rihanna would actually serve herself a carrot and then carelessly leave it on the coffee table.
In a corner, Karl plots his revenge. No more Instagram. No more one liners. He’ll cast no one but unknowns, and everyone will think he’s a genius.