Yar har har. While that photo could actually serve as proof-in-pudding evidence that I don't quite do this shit the right way, I'll take it upon myself to run down exactly why I implode at fancy events in effort to save one of you from making the same cruel mistakes. I am disaster and so can you!....or something like that. These rules ain't so clear to me, but maybe now we'll all show up laughing on The Sartorialist in perfect MiuMiu pumps while some other broad accidentally steps in a puddle up to her ankle and shows up to the tents sweating through her jacket. Those will be the days! The daaaayyyyys! But until then, here's long-form exercise in futility, or for you, a cheat sheet on how to not be a messy, Jelly Belly-colored blob like yours truly:
#1: Pick your outfit out exactly twelve minutes beforehand.
Or, alternately, don't wear any of the beautiful things you own by the designer because you're a doofus and didn't leave enough time to put on tights or match things or learn to layer or do laundry beforehand.
I was in bed writing about tacos and spaghetti toast (not a joke) before I completely lost track of time, and only had a small sack full of minutes 'til I had to get the fuck out of the house. Once I painted my face and covered my necessary parts, I came up with this smash-and-grab combo, now with necessary annotations:
I mean, with only a handful of minutes to go I didn't do so terribly, but I didn't knock it out of the proverbial Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week park, either. When stuck between looking stylish by way of "great" or by way "piling on enough things to confuse people", I naturally err on the side of smorgasboard by way of fabrics and cuts. And, of course, ill choices all around...
#2: Wear shoes you absolutely cannot walk in.
Unless you're an internet human, a sucker for pain or are the token person in Barre Burn class that everyone hates for being so precise, don't wear your craziest shoes to this shit. Thirty seconds after people walk away, they won't remember your face shape let alone your feet, since no one's looking down while talking to you. Being as there was no one around the apartment to say "You are out of your mind" that morning, I learned the hard way that no one really cares what you're doing, especially when the entire world is covered in the highly technical weather term "wintry mix". If people in the front row can wear Nike Dunks, you can too.
I got these gems a (nauseatingly) staggering seven years ago after seeing Rumi and Karla with them and then spotting them on a sale rack at a Neiman Marcus Last Call in Florida. I had to borrow money from my grandmother to cover the cost, and have never worn them. Ever. Until Friday, when admidst a snowstorm and a few too many days of solitary confinment, they seemed like a great idea.
#3: Completely underprepare for bad weather.
I grabbed the smallest umbrella I could find, in order to look as though "this storm wasn't really affecting me or anything," and it blew inside-out no joke, the second I stepped outside my apartment. A trash bag with a stick through it would have been more helpful than this godforsaken hunk of Duane Reade junk, but instead of looking cool, I looked like that rainy disaster up above. Can someone bring babushkas back, please? We were so close with turbans, but then they got mysteriously taken over by NYU trend slaves and lived and died with twenty-year-olds getting manicures in the East Village on Sunday afternoons who didn't feel like combing their hair through. We could have been golden on hair coverings if those tiny witches didn't snap 'em up.
Next time, when the weather gets tough, just pile on everything and pack an extra collapsible bag to dump it all in while standing around. Having more bags makes you look more busy, anyway; fuck those TommyTon photos of just a clutch, if you're not famous enough to have to carry nothing, carry everything. (Though, if you're daring to be minimalist, this helping friendly should do the trick.)
Same goes for gloves. (Sorry, little red sausage fingers. I'll take care of you next Fashion Week.)
#4: Get there early or get there late, but never pick the right one.
When it comes to fashion shows, getting there early is for the standing roomers who are hoping to get a seat; getting there five or ten past and wooshing in just before the show starts are the cool kids, bold-named adults and internet robots who people wait to turn the lights down for. Technically, you want to time it just between the two, but as a mushpile who is chronically late and consistently a last-minute disaster, I aim for that sweet spot and always miss it. Always. This year, I got there at 10:58 for an 11am show, an acceptable time if you are a notable human, a non-acceptable time for someone who was told in advance to come there early. Pick your poison: if you wanna chance it and walk in glamorously late-but-on-time, do it, but accept the consequences. If you want to get there a few minutes ahead because you're a proven neurotic (ahem), knock off a couple fashionably late cool points and save yourself from having a nervous breakdown trying to catch a cab in a snowstorm. Or running towards Lincoln Center's slick tiles as schoolchildren make fun of your overcoat. All hypotheticals, of course...
#5: Show Up Hungry
Because the last thing you want to do when staring at rail-thin knobby knees McGee over there is hate the turkey sandwich sticking to your thighs, right? Nope. The only fate worse than death by starvation is being the girl scarfing down the free AmEx snack packs of dried apricots and chocolate-seeming-covered-pretzels. You know you're in trouble when you're less concerned with everyone carrying a Zoya gift bag and more preoccupied with where the mini bags of stale food products are. Get there with some form of a carbohydrate processing through your digestive track, or at least leave before you get to the point where you're trolling Tresemmé pop-up booths for food. (That last one may just be a note to myself.)
#6: Immediately come down with food poisoning the second you get home from the show.
"Well, that's a waste of a blowout" says the very cartoony voice inside my head that has now morphed into a faded mixture of internal monologue that's been my only entertainment save for the movie "Butter" on Netflix while "relaxing horizontally". I slept for two days straight and my apartment's been covered in a thin layer of Egg & Onion matzo, saltines and strewn-about, half-empty Ginger Ale cans, my only sustenance for the week. I only wish I'd started Weight Watchers last week so that I could bump those bonus points over to this week and be havin' cake breakfasts and poutine lunches. Guess I went about that one the wrong way, too...