It was the night before my first Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week and I had nothing to wear. I had emptied my whole closet, texted my sister in L.A. with 15 pictures of outfit options (see option 1 above), and hated everything I own. So I called in the reinforcements and conducted a city-wide closet raid on my gaggle of girlfriends, resulting in a bagful of fab loans like tribal necklaces, colorful scarves, bold-shouldered blazers, and silk shirtdresses. My ensemble crisis was averted, but my stomach was still in knots. Is this what the gliteratti feel like the night before big events?
After tossing and turning all night, I darted off to ideeli HQ on day 1 decked in an army green silk shirt, black leggings, and knee-high stiletto boots, topped off with a scarf covered in red roses. The hours flew, and before I knew it, I was riding the C train uptown with a 5 hour energy drink in one hand and my iPhone in another, guarding my invitations as if the homeless guy across from me was gunning for them. I was a solid 15 minutes late.
I sprinted to Lincoln Center, but had to stop cold in front of the storied compound. I was walking into the veritable Super Bowl of fashion. A photographer’s voice snapped me out of my daze with the words every fashion girl wants to hear. “Wait! Can I get your picture?” I played it cool. Sunnies off, strike a pose, smile, move on. I played it so cool, in fact, that I have no idea who he was, or who he was working for.
I walked right into the tents, greeted by bumping music, low purple lights, PR girls with headsets and glittering “Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week” emblazoned everywhere. No one asked for my ID, or credentials—it was easier than getting into some Manhattan nightclubs!
After getting my bearings and doing a lap, I somehow found my spot at Luca Luca (runway shot above!), but not without a mean case of the shakes. The scene was insane, paparazzi and attendees alike snapping photos of Tinsley Mortimer, Petra Nemcova, and all the other beautiful showgoers. They all seemed to know each other, too, so when my seatmate, London fashion journalist extraordinaire Iman Pasha, turned to me and introduced herself, I was happy as a clam to have a new friend. Then, the lights dimmed. Everything stopped. And just like that, magic.
Goddesses waltzed down the catwalk. Luca Luca’s creative director Raul Melgoza created a collection for F/W 2011 that was one part Katherine Hepburn, with high-waisted trousers in bold burgundy, one part mod chic with an orange fur topping a slim pink pantsuit. My favorite? A white chiffon pleated skirt with a sheer white blouse tied together with a skinny black patent belt. I can’t help it. I’m tan, I’m tall, I’m from Miami: all white everything is kind of my thing.
We made our way to Tadashi Shoji, which I was super excited to see since the pieces featured in our sale were so amazing. As the lights came up, I had a perfect view of the front row lineup, with Amanda Lutrell, Johnny Weir, Kat Deluna, and a bevy of models and socialites (pictured above). The gowns were surreal. I’ll dream about the one-shouldered barely pink number with lace and chiffon super-imposed in frothy layers for days. And just like that, the show was over.
I had gone to my shows, rubbed elbows with New York’s fashion elite, and was ready to go home and get some rest when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was a reporter with a microphone and a pretty intense-looking videographer. They were from On Style, a Korean street style channel, loved my look, and wanted to interview me! So I smiled, cocked my head to the side and made him laugh when I said I was “just keeping it real.” And then I looked down. A remnant of TP, from when I went to touch up my uber-trendy red-orange lipstick, was stuck to my heel. Fashion. Fail. No worries though, I stopped the camera guy, removed the offending piece of tissue, and kept on posing, man. It’s only my first fashion week once, after all.