You Know My Steez

It’s fashion week here in New York City. (Keep reading, there’s more to this than clothing).

The fall collections are still during winter, so there are a lot of chilly people in Bryant Park. I went to a show the other day when there was no slush on the ground, but I still worried about falling. Like many a lady, I enjoy watching an array of pretty clothes paraded just out of a sensible price range. I enjoy an excuse to get gussied up. I do not enjoy, despite my chosen profession, the slight tinge of dread that goes with being photographed. It feels like a lot of worry over something inane; it feels like a waste of energy; it feels self-absorbed, and just not, well, cool.

I’ve had a few female friends ask about fashion week, with looks of girlish excitement in their eyes. I catch myself dismissing it self-righteously, and think what a fool I am to deny this fun perk of my job. Many a chick can’t imagine owning a pair of designer shoes, let alone a rotation of borrowed and returnable items so one never gets bored. And it’s easy to feel guilty for this kind of experience. How many water purification tablets could fit into one Christian Louboutin shoe? (That’s figurative, but the answer is a lot if you count the four-inch heels).

My real reason for minimizing the hoopla around Fashion Week is maybe less noble;  its just plain old defensiveness. If I value this amorphous entity known as The Fashion World, then I value its valuation of me. And thus the needless, silly anxiety.

Cue the silliness…

A journalist at the show had time for one question. He looked at me with a straight face and asked, “Spanx or Thongs?” No joke.

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While I find something worth writing about…

check out www.francessultan.com.

I’m most impressed with how unique her stories are, since it’s hard not to be derivative. Fran’s writing is playful, wacky, insightful, and keeps you guessing.