The setting: New York Fashion Week, Tuesday, the afternoon after having fallen during a show. Yes, that happened. You can read about here.
I'll give you a second to laugh your ass off at me.
All good?
So after all of that I have this odd mixture of feelings, like "hope I didn't ruin this for anyone" and "kind of embarrassed" and "holy shit, awesome for my blog." But I'm also determined to somehow make up for it at the after-party that night.
The place doesn't need much description-- dimly lit, Billboard 100 music, groups of people mingling around densely populated tables stocked for alcohol consumption. As I get there, my mission seems to be going well. I make the joke that people should keep me away from any of the ledges. Several females insinuate that, for some reason, they would not be all that opposed to fucking me. Several men are even clearer. One of them approaches a girl I was dancing with and, with my attention elsewhere, apparently says "He's mine bitch I'll kill you." Then proceeds to come up behind me and nuzzle my neck with his entire face. I was flattered.
Anyway, it was a blast, particularly to someone who never got invited to parties in high school. And hopefully people went away thinking of me less as "That kid who fell" and more as "That kid who danced like the guy on Blue's Clues and knew all the lyrics to the Billy Joel songs."
Yeah, it's like that.
...except for one girl, who almost certainly put me in her own made-up category. Because within 20 seconds of arriving she was dancing nearby when her friend knocked my drink out of my hand, sending it all over my crotch and all over her dress.
Normally this wouldn't be a huge deal, drinks get spilled all the time at dance parties. Except this is a fashion after-party, and you're not spilling a drink on some chick in a GAP skirt, you're spilling it on someone wearing legit vintage Versace. Honestly it was just my fucking luck that day. I was pretty much waiting for my mom to call me with some terrible news, like my 13-year-old Beagle had died or something.
"Mom, I can't hear you. What's that? I was adopted?"
The girl ended up being pretty cool about it though, and her friend was actually the makeup artist on the show, and we all kind of hung out periodically throughout the night to give me some measure of self-worth back, and...cool whatever, this isn't the story though.
Next day, Wednesday after Fall Down Tuesday. I go out with some people from my agency. At one point this dude walks by and I'm like "Wait I think I know you..." and it turns out I did know him, or at least what his abs look like, because it was Tyson Beckford. And on the celeb scale that night we were about on the same level, because upstairs sat-- get this-- fucking Jay Z and Beyoncé and Nas. Yeah.
In the midst of this, Spilled Drink Girl texts me and invites me to a party for the Marc Jacobs show the following night. When the agency people ask what I'm doing tomorrow, I tell them that...and they fucking lose their shit. They, who got me into this party, which includes Hova and a then-pregnant Bey and Nas celebrating his fucking birthday...THEY are jealous of ME for getting into this OTHER party. Apparently this Marc Jacobs show is the most epic fashion thing on planet Earth (that month anyway), and consequently the party is the most epic fucking party next to something straight out of an 80's movie.
Because honestly, what's beating this?
And I was invited! Or so I thought.
I'm actually leaving you there because A.) I need to go find food before everyone freaks out over this snowstorm, B.) I feel like I might have semi-bored you with lots of details, but I'm not re-typing that shit, and C.) It means you have something to look forward to in case you do actually get snowed in.
It's like a cliffhanger! Insert commercial here. Preferably not that Matt Terry one, it's gonna make me feel wicked guilty about whatever I'm about to choose to eat.
