Every time I say that, I always wait for the devil to appear in a cloud of smoke uttering, “oh reeeaaaaallllyyyy?” But it never happens. I’m overly prepared for when and if that moment does occur because I will kindly hand him over my soul, which I imagine to look like some type of glowing orb, if he got me the hook up to all the best shows. I’ll sign on the dotted line, “I, Kate, happily give my to soul to Satan himself in order to work Fashion Week.”
I’ve been once and it was like taking a bite of the most to-die-for piece of cake you could never even fathom, but not finishing it and never seeing it again. Sigh. I went when it was still at Bryant Park and my friend and I technically didn’t have tickets. We just used fancy invites she had from another show to flash security when we walked up the steps and into the tents (shockingly easy), which might have been one of the coolest slash most insane moments of my young life … with all the paparazzi wondering if I was “someone,” but I’m pretty sure “someone” wouldn’t rock Forev 21 booties like I was … although those booties were fierce, I still have them.
So when we got in the tents, we just kind of melted into the background of all the madness and watched. It was very surreal, Alexander McQueen had just tragically took his own life and you could tell there was a stir within the tents about it. I won’t bore you with details but I became complete, to be ultimately cheesy. But I don’t just want to be a wallflower gazing at these fabulous people. I want to be in the hurricane of fashion. I want to be on my iPhone emailing, tweeting, updating my status, blogging and Tumbling all at the same time like a maniac, moving a million miles a minute. I don’t need to be sitting next to Anna Wintour in the front row, I just want to be in eye sight of the runway. That’s all I ask. I don’t even need a seat.
As much as I want to blog about what’s going on during Fashion Week, the message kind of loses it luster when I read about it from some site who read about it from some site, who heard about it from someone else who was sitting next to this person at the actual show. It pains me to say that, but it is true.
There are just places in life that you know you belong, and for me it is here. It bothers me so much when I hear people in the industry say how crazy fashion week is and how it is the week from hell. Jesus. Christ. Boo-frickity-hoo. I realize it is an insane week and never stops, but all of it makes my heart skip a beat. I know anyone would say I’m crazy and I would change my mind once I’ve been through it, but honestly I’ve been through intern boot camp, real life boot camp and beyond … bring. it. on. And no, I’m not in it for the free goods or the opportunity to rub shoulders with the rich and famous, or the chance to attend fantastic parties, I straight up just want to report the fabulous lines to all of my fabulous readers. It makes me giddy in fact … like school girl giddy … like holy shit David Beckham just told me I’m beautiful giddy.
So yeah, I’ve had a love affair with fashion week since I was in high school and randomly stumbled upon coverage on the Style Channel and sat there in awe with drool coming out of my mouth and knew I belonged there then. Since then I literally live on NYMag.com’s The Cut, since I find them to have the best coverage.
So yeah, Fashion Week starts Feb. 9, meaning I have two more days or so to sell my soul to the devil to get me there … until then I shall wait patiently …