New York Fashion Week: It's On!
Tomorrow begins the period of insanity known in Manhattan as New York Fashion Week. Is it crazy? Totally. Is it over the top? Always. Is it fun? You bet. Am I prepared? Not a chance.
It has been incredibly hot here in the city this week which dashes my planned NYFW uniform of leather pants, silk tops, and killer boots. If this heat continues I will be rocking pasties, a thong, and killer boots (the boots are happening no matter what). I could be spending time carefully curating my wardrobe for the week, instead I am writing this blog post. If you're curious, here is a rundown of my morning routine during Fashion Week. Take it as a lesson in what not to do.
Fashion Week Morning Rituals
Get up at the crack of dawn in order to have plenty of time to transform self into International Fabulous Person. Curse self for staying up til 2 am watching reruns of SVU. Damn you Mariska Hargitay and your never-ending fight for justice.
Drink weird green juice. Pulverized kale is not appetizing but I need the energy. (I drink this awful liquid salad only twice a year during fashion week, it's all I can stomach.) While gagging on health juice, remind self that there will be martini rewards around 6 PM. Finish juice. Pray for martinis. And chocolate.
Exhaust two hours and 4 pounds of hair product to get the 'do to look as though I spent the night sharing a sleeping bag in the woods with a crazed possum. Shellac the I-woke-up-like-this bedhead hair into place. Pray the 'do will make it through the evening. It won't.
Take three times as long to apply the exact same daily makeup routine. The extra time allows for determining that the makeup stash is full of crap, the canvas (my face) is hideous, and false lashes can only be applied by a professional with a PhD. Make mental notes to call for botox, juvederm, and full body laser work stat.
Break out brand new en trend lip color (Tom Ford Bruised Plum). Breathe a sigh of relief and note that fabulous lip color always saves the day.
Stand naked in front of closet. Panic. Ransack perfectly assembled closet in search of the chicest yet most effortless look possible. Proceed into meltdown #1. Decide that I have no taste and will be fashion roadkill. Find a leather skirt that might work. Pair with killer boots. Select a hat and jewelry. Throw on fab blouse. Proceed to meltdown #2. The fab blouse has a vinegar stain. Decide that god is a hater. Decide the entire wardrobe must have been purchased while intoxicated. Select denim. Commit to a minimalist uniform of denim, moto jacket, and accessories.
Admire completed look in full length mirror. Conclude that yes! fabulousness has indeed arrived. Embrace narcissism! Practice posing for photo ops. Plan to take fashion week by storm. Envision gracing the pages of Vogue, US Weekly, and the New York Times. Trip over own foot and wipeout. Find self face down on the floor.
Resolve to come back down to earth, vanity is an ugly quality. Almost as ugly as the big blue bruise appearing on my knee. Pick self up off the floor. Shake it off. Regroup.
Pack handbag and race downstairs to meet the Uber. Spend the rest of the day wondering whether or not the curling iron was ever unplugged.
Wish me luck, I'll report back.