Oh, and tits. Lots and lots of tits.
But when it comes to sleep, it's more like HAVING a newborn. In that you're not fucking getting any. Starting with Fashion's Night Out (even if you completely missed that), it's a non-stop flurry of shows and after-parties and after-the-after-party food runs.
You don't have to go to these parties of course, much like no one held a gun to your head and said you had to bump nasties and make that baby. But chances are you're going to, and the result is to not expect a hell of a lot of shuteye.
Occasionally these two things-- feeling like you have the competency of a 2-month-old and the sleep of a mother of one-- come together with a bang. Literally.
It started off normal-- Bagels. Coffee. Incredibly attractive and wildly fashionable assistants. Do some hair, do some makeup, read some newspaper. The entire time people are snapping pictures, candid backstage shots that I have a habit of making not-candid by pointing and smiling. Which is only mildly better than the alternative, which is in your attempt to remain candid you forget what the hell you're talking about with the person next to you, and end up kind of standing there fumbling over your words as a photographer visually documents your idiocy.
(I suppose another alternative here could be that you're so used to having cameras on you that you can just relax in your spinny chair and totally ignore the guy coming over to do a close-up of your pants, but I'm not at that point yet and not sure I ever want to be.)
The point is, it was a dandy morning. Yes, dandy. The clothes fit. The people were cool. At one point I did begin walking around with my fly unzipped, but played it off by acting like I needed it to be in order to whip off my pants at any moment so they could fix them and tuck in my shirt. Smooth, I know.
In fact, I actually thought I might get through this one with little to no awkwardness. Turns out that was about as likely as Brad Pitt and Kevin Spacey's characters in Se7en going on a dinner date.
What's in the box?! Appetizers!
The way the show worked was this: One by one we'd go down the runway, a raised platform that actually went side-to-side in front of the audience rather than cut down through them. Once every person had gone we'd all head out in a line and stand staggered, half of us in front of the platform, half of us on it. Simple enough. Unless you're me.
We actually had to do this twice, once for super important editorial people, another for the audience of invited guests.
The first time, got it, boom, nailed it, headshot, +23 points for Gryffindor bitches I'm passing GO and collecting 200 dollars. (or, uh...or trade depending on the show.)
The second time...
So we're standing there staggered after walking, and it's been a good amount of time. The guests are not even paying attention to us anymore, instead grabbing drinks and fraternizing with one another. We're basically standing there silently watching people party. So...basically most of my adolescence.
Out of nowhere, I start to not feel very good. To be fair, I had woken up that morning with a stuffy nose and took medicine, and I'd been standing on a stage for awhile, under lights, in a full suit and shoes a couple sizes too small. But that was no reason to quit or complain. My athlete brain kicked in-- "I've felt WAY worse than this and toughed it out, this is nothing." But that didn't mean I could control my face sweat, and with no one looking, I decided to sneak in a quick rub of my eyes. In the process of this, I took a step back...
...and disappeared right off the stage. Seriously. Not a joke. In about 3 seconds I went from ex-NCAA runner to someone with the hand-eye coordination of a dead rabbit. And probably looked like one too, wedged in between the backdrop of the stage and the platform.
We actually had to do this twice, once for super important editorial people, another for the audience of invited guests.
The first time, got it, boom, nailed it, headshot, +23 points for Gryffindor bitches I'm passing GO and collecting 200 dollars. (or, uh...or trade depending on the show.)
The second time...
So we're standing there staggered after walking, and it's been a good amount of time. The guests are not even paying attention to us anymore, instead grabbing drinks and fraternizing with one another. We're basically standing there silently watching people party. So...basically most of my adolescence.
Out of nowhere, I start to not feel very good. To be fair, I had woken up that morning with a stuffy nose and took medicine, and I'd been standing on a stage for awhile, under lights, in a full suit and shoes a couple sizes too small. But that was no reason to quit or complain. My athlete brain kicked in-- "I've felt WAY worse than this and toughed it out, this is nothing." But that didn't mean I could control my face sweat, and with no one looking, I decided to sneak in a quick rub of my eyes. In the process of this, I took a step back...
...and disappeared right off the stage. Seriously. Not a joke. In about 3 seconds I went from ex-NCAA runner to someone with the hand-eye coordination of a dead rabbit. And probably looked like one too, wedged in between the backdrop of the stage and the platform.
This had the effect of an epi-pen to the heart however, and I was back up and striking a goofy pose quicker than Marsellus Wallace's wife. And was then promptly led off the stage, though I said I was fine. At first I thought it was because I had totally ruined everything in the universe for all time, but really it was just the people in charge genuinely worried that I was sick or something. I have to stress that they were nothing but professional and kind the whole time, even as they struggled against the raucous laughter no doubt threatening to overtake their bodies.
Meanwhile, my own body featured this when I got home:
Actual picture of my back. Also seen here: my butt on the sink.
So let's recap. I'm at a show. It's actually going very well. And then I literally fall off the back of the stage during the presentation. This ACTUALLY HAPPENED.
In retrospect, it's absolutely hilarious-- at the after-party it was a running joke to keep me away from any ledges or stairs. And in a roundabout way it led to a blast at the Marc Jacobs party later in the week. But at the time, there were really only two thoughts that went through my head...
1.) I really hope I didn't fuck up anything for these cool people.
2.) Congratulations, you are America's Most Awkward Model.
1.) I really hope I didn't fuck up anything for these cool people.
2.) Congratulations, you are America's Most Awkward Model.
