It was recently Fashion Week in New York. I used to love, love, love Fashion Week in high school because one of our local cable channels aired runway footage with bitchy commentary nearly twenty-four hours a day. I'd park myself on the couch with an industrial size bag of Chex Mix (my Fashion Week high-class snack food of choice) and watch seven full days of haute couture wobble hungrily across my TV.
Living in New York with a roommate who doles out the plus-ones like a mama bird horks grubs to a chick, I had a more interactive Fashion Week experience than I'm used to. Until last week, the only contact I've had with a high fashion runway model was flinging pretzel rings (the weakest link in the Chex Mix chain) at the TV when Gaultier stuck one in a particularly horrendous outfit. That changed when Brad asked if I wanted to come to the Heatherette fashion show after party.
It's not to say that I am fixated on what I wear. It's just that I am the most indecisive and emotional dresser in the universe. Like, since its inception. During the Big Bang a particular bunch of particles sprang forth from the void and scattered to the far reaches of existence, where for millennia upon millennia they all wondered whether or not their jeans were too high-waisted. Statistics and the cold climes of space kept them apart for billions of fraught, half-dressed, mismatched years.
I am their reunion.
Like a schizophrenic, I have good days and I have bad days. There are those few days when I roll out of bed and pull on some pants and feel fine all day. Also a shirt. I feel fine when put on both pants and a shirt. But other days I will actually cry when it comes down to picking which pair of jeans I should wear, jeans that are identical to anyone who is not me, jeans that I don't even like anyway and I will just take off once I figure out which shirt I'm going to wear, which is impossible because I hate every single shirt I have and they all make me look like a man. From the pile of t-shirts on the floor to a complete lack of confidence in my gender identity.
This is what I am on a sub-atomic level
Anyway, so, when Brad asked if I wanted to go to the Heatherette party I was torn. My desire to see whether models actually ingest alcohol or just sniff it to get drunk calorie free was in direct opposition to my genetic (jeanetic?) disorder. I was planning on spending a night with Neflix.
I went because I managed to pick an outfit without giving in to guttural sobs. But I wasn't totally comfortable with it. Topped off with my filthy, once-white Old Navy parka, I was a walking Tide commercial as dressed by H&M. My accessories for the evening were three very attractive gentlemen
, an impeccably attired bunch who go well with everything except iffy self-esteem. After a few tense velvet rope moments we were plucked from the crowd and ushered into the party, which was wall to wall skin, bones, and fabulous eye shadow.
We did a lap around the place and spotted a couple of Queer Eye guys. And omnipresent gossip wet noodle Michael Musto. We found a spot to stand and watch the tranny gogo dancers dangling from a suspended neon cage and I began to feel like a Fashion Week party was the same as any party. Except with more protruding collarbones.
And then this French guy motioned me over.
Somewhere in the three steps it took me to get to where he was standing I saw the rest of the evening diverging; on one hand, there was a whirlwind courtship with a little known but very talented French designer and all the free clothes I could handle, and on the other, some sort of inevitable reality where he asks me for another drink or tells me my fly is down.
But what I got was even better!
"You should go to the tents. Bryant Park."
"What?" I said.
"Go to the tents. You need a makeover. They can do it there."
"Uh," I said.
"Now go about your business."
And that was that. Go about your beezniss. The whole thing was so absurd. I mean really? People really pick people out of crowds and tell them, as they flip back their long, greasy French hair, that they should get a makeover? And don't even give them free samples or the card of a similarly snooty but charitable hairdresser, from whom I might take a haircut even if it was at the expense of my dignity, because I've been cutting my own hair with scissors I stole from ResLife?
Turns out they do. Thanks, Fashion Week.
It was about that time that we hoofed it down to the basement, and I decided to dance to Michael Jackson instead of cry. My molecules wanted not only to redress, they wanted to take a blowtorch to my delicates, but I decided "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" was a better way to go. I had a good time, considering.
But seriously, from now on they're Freedom fries.
And they taste so good
, you tiny French motherfucker.