YES! Finance Meets Fashion is back April 8th at the Empire Hotel. It’s your opportunity to mingle with the men of finance, at least, the men of finance who can get out of their jobs really, really early, so you can stand in a room and stare blankly at them. Of course, it’s only open to ladies in the fashion industry, though I continue to eagerly await the men of fashion, ladies of finance edition. For now, I just can’t wait to pretend to be Karl Lagerfeld’s personal assistant again. We can only hope that it’s half as strange (magical) as last year’s. What happened last year? This. This happened:

Hosted by Jeremy Abelson of, the event’s premise was to ensure that the “women of fashion meet the men of finance”. According to the invitation, the gathering is more important than ever, given the recession. “The [financial] uncertainty caused panic which caused irrational decisions—there’s going to be a two year blip in the system where a hot fashion girl might commit to a pharmaceutical salesman.” At first, I thought this wording had to be an inside joke and that “pharmaceutical salesman” was code for “cocaine dealer.” It wasn’t. Men in investment banking/venture capital/hedge funds are apparently seriously concerned. Who knew? The invite went on to remark that there are a few years of recession left until a recovery kicks in and I can “quit my job and become a tennis mom.” Yay! I was inspired to dress in my tennis whites for the evening!

Apparently, other guests were taking the event more seriously. The girl guarding the door had been told by Abelson that women in finance were to be denied entrance “forcefully”. And, they were. I was shocked to see one beautifully dressed woman rejected because she had foolishly chosen to become a stockbroker (otherwise known as the fast track to spinsterhood). You would think a beautiful woman who worked in finance would be considered a catch by any man in finance because they might have things in common. Shows you what I know. (I avoided the whole predicament by lying. For that one glorious evening, I was Karl Lagerfeld’s personal assistant.) That said, I’m really, really hoping for a turnaround as fair play later in the season—Men of Fashion Meet Women of Finance. That would be fucking fierce.

But then I suspect my cynical self was not the target market—my backhand, after all, is lousy. “I just feel,” blurted one girl by the door, “that this is the kind of thing where you can meet a guy you could marry, you know? I just want to be with a guy who is really, really successful.” But, sweetie, the bankers there had left their offices and were at the bar by, like, 6:00 p.m. on a Thursday. For real players, even their temps wouldn’t be out of the office by then. I’m not about to step on anyone’s dreams, but I do think that the likelihood of Abelson playing fairy godfather is remote. Miss “I-want-to-meet-a-guy-to-marry” might have better luck at, say, Cipriani Upstairs. Or a charity gala. Or anyplace but a low-end bar like Nikki Beach in Beekman Hill at 6:00 p.m. on a Thursday.

Meanwhile, the men didn’t seem as eager to find prospective mates. Most rolled their eyes and said that there are so few finance guys left around that, “We can go anywhere we want and get girls.” So why were they there? One extra special candidate stated that he wasn’t planning on settling down until he hit age fifty. Then he did that frat-tastic maneuver where you open your beer bottle on the side of the counter. It frothed up and spilled everywhere (and with that froth went those poor fashion girls’ dreams of matrimony). And then, as I stood there, I realized that this is the kind of event we end up going to in Manhattan in August. And this is the reason why women dream of fleeing to be tennis moms in the Hamptons.

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