I’m not a fashionista. I know. You’re shocked. I pull off my fashionable Target maternity dresses quite well (I’m not pregnant), and I manage to style them with Forever 21 jewelry and clearance purses from Charlotte Russe. I mostly wear dresses, not because I like to dress up, but because pants dig into my gut and I like to be free to eat as I wish (and let my belly fat fly freely).
I recently went to New York City. (Yes, again. I’m a total jet setter, flying coach in a middle seat. Classy.) My flight left super early at 5:40 a.m. (Did you know the world functioned that early in the morning? I do not. Fortunately, the pilot did.)
I went to the airport sporting a very stylish pair of workout capris, a t-shirt and tennis shoes (and by “stylish” I mean mismatched and most likely covered in Diet Coke stains.)
Although I was in workout gear, I had no desire or intention to increase my heart rate for anything other than sprinting to the Cinnabon for breakfast. I just wanted to wear my jammies, and I had to make myself comfortable to make up for the fact that I was wearing a bra. (You’re welcome TSA.)
I slept and most likely drooled the whole way on the plane, and arrived in New York ready to take on the day. It was raining by the time I got to my hotel but since I already looked like someone’s cleaning lady, I decided not to change clothes and keep with my fashionable look.
I dropped off my luggage at the hotel and headed to lunch by myself where I ate a shameful amount of Mexican food. As I was licking the bowl of guacamole clean, I received a text from Gansavoort. (Not her real name, although it would be cool if it was).
Gansavoort is my super trendy friend who works for a fabulously famous fashion magazine. I have no idea why we are friends, but I assume she feels sorry for me and I’m some sort of charity work for her. I’m fine with it. I was planning to have lunch with Gansavoort but she had to cancel due to something most likely super important and fabulous with the magazine.
Because I was having dinner with her later that night, I wasn’t too upset about the cancellation. I also knew this would mean I wouldn’t have judgy eyes watching me as I made sweet love to my guacamole at lunch. It was a win-win.
I digress with talk of guacamole. Back to the text.
She said her super important meeting was cancelled and that I should come meet her at The Hearst Tower for an afternoon break. Since I have no pride in myself, and I wanted to see where the infamous Nina Garcia worked, I texted back that I would be there. (Actually, I texted back with a cute thumbs up emotocon, but whatever.)
It continued to rain in NYC, and since an umbrella wouldn’t go with my snazzy outfit, I was forced to walk in the rain. I looked like a depressed woman in a pharmaceutical commercial for herpes medication.
I arrived at Hearst Tower and walked inside only to see huge escalators and fountains of water. (Because just what I needed to see was more water coming down from the heavens.) The doorman was immediately on high alert, as I was dressed to kill.
I went to the reception desk and stood in line behind two fashionistas who appeared to be high maintenance and on a juice-only diet (which most likely caused a diarrhea-only result). They were obviously very important. As I waited for them to finish their important business, Prada Shoes turned around with her wet umbrella in hand. (Her name wasn’t Prada Shoes.
I’m sure it was something charmingly annoying like Princess or Luv.) As she turned with her umbrella, Prada Shoes shook it like a Polaroid picture. (The umbrella, not her booty.)
Water sprayed all over me, although it was hard to tell considering I was already soaking from my recent walk contemplating herpes.
“Oh,” she said, half laughing. “I’m sooo sorry.” P.S. said, in her most disingenuous tone.
“That’s alright,” I said, without missing a beat. “I’m headed up to Elle Magazine for a fashion shoot and they have several wardrobe options available for me there. No biggie.”
She and her friend, Gucci Bag, walked away, quietly trying to figure out which celebrity I was. I considered telling them I was a famous author, as I was sure their eyes had never looked at anything other than “Curious George Goes Shopping,” but I refrained.
I signed in with the receptionist (who probably thought I was homeless) and met with Gansavoort. We had a good laugh about P.S. and G.B.
I may have been the one to show up at a fashion building in workout capris from Target, but at least I knew a crazy girl from the Midwest when I saw one.
If only I could see the look on P.S. and G.B’s faces when they discover I’m not on the cover of next month’s Elle.