New York’s “Fashion’s Night Out”

To kick off New York Fashion Week, retailers all over Manhattan hosted parties and red-carpet events with celebs, DJ’s, designers, models, champagne etc.

Being a fashion label ignoramus, I planned on avoiding this event… until I saw a snippet in the paper about my idol – Nora Ephron, doing a reading at the Armani store.

(When I grow up, I’d like to be Nora Ephron.)

I threw a crush proof dress in my bag, and did my hair and make up so it would last all day. Which is what I do every day. (Once you leave Ada’s, there’s no turning back.) I also decided to wear flats, which turned out to be the best and worst decision I made.

Contrary to popular belief, women of New York rarely wear heels. This is due to the vast amounts of walking they do on a daily basis. In fact, New Yorkers actually live a little longer than the average American, from all the extra walking.

At 7pm, I emerged from the subways onto Madison Avenue.

The streets were abuzz with models, paparazzi and publicists holding clip boards with lists of names. It was like someone had dropped a giant glitter bomb on New York, and it had exploded with all the glitz and glamour you always dreamed this City could have. (A far cry from the general day to day reality.)

I took a deep breath, as lanky women in couture and Christian Louboutin heels (or as I call them - shoes with red soles) emerged from cars in all directions. I came up to their hips. It was another world.

A feeling of extreme pleasure and guilt swirled inside me. I was painfully aware of how little I know about the fashion world, (and celebs for that matter), and I knew my fashionista friends would have killed to be here. Oh well, I was here anyway...

Shit! I thought. How am I going to get into Armarni? There’ll be a line, a list, and a height requirement… or not. I strode straight in. A handsome male model offered me a welcomed champagn, and I made my way upstairs.

There, I watched a room full of industry people talk shop. Everyone was in black or grey Armarni – it was dazzling! Tall, tanned models slinked by me in black gowns and heels. Of course, I was in white. I felt like an albino oompa loompa in comparison, and I stood between the ottomans and the wall, silently wishing to become invisible.


My wish must have come true, because a tray of hors d'oeuvres whizzed by, without so much as slowing in my direction.

On closer inspection, there were three trays, with no more than five hors d'oeuvres, each circling around the room, stopping only at men, and the elderly. Clearly, it was assumed that women didn’t eat at these things. It was hard not to eye the food, that was intentionally being paraded in front of me, but always just out of arm’s reach.

I sipped my champagne, and thought some self-affirming thoughts, to gain confidence. If I was going to pull off my contrasting look, I had better be bold, and pretend I felt a million dollars.

Suddenly the gay man on my right, turned and raised his glass to me “Well, I guess we should say cheers to fashion week!”

Cheers!! Then he got swooped by a publicists, who was twice my hight and half my weight.

Leather ottomans with reserved signs on them started to fill with important people. One lady, who’s face was so taught from plastic surgery, had a tall male personal assistant, in his 40’s glued to her side. He was a skinny white man, who resembled Bruce Wane’s butler, and it was his job to put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her with his eyes, as she sat down. I watched him stand off to the side, staring at her, anticipating her every breath. This woman was this grown man’s full-time job. I wonder how that made him feel.

To my left, a young woman held up a journalist’s tweet to another lady, which read “Nora looked stunning in Black Armarni.”

And she did. Elegant, and classy as always. She told a story about how important clothes are to women. Once, in her late 20's, her favorite red shirt got lost at the dry cleaner's. She was devastated. And to this day, that's all she can remember from her first marriage!

Rosie O'donnel then read from Nora's new play "Love, Loss and What I Wore," based on a book by Ilene Beckerman. (Apparently it's like the Vagina Mologues only about clothes instead of vaginas.)


Afterwards, a little old lady, in colourful jewellery and brilliant white hair came up to me and said “I love your dress!” Well, that and the champagne, was all I needed to feel truly fabulous. I considered going up to Nora and shaking her hand, and saying “Thanks for being such an amazing woman!” But there were so many people congratulating her. Plus I heard one lady talking about a project she was getting Nora to collaborate on.

I strongly believe, if you’re going to invite your self over for dinner, then you had better bring something to the table. And I had nothing, but a stupid grin and a handshake, so I played it cool, and left.

Out on Madison Ave it continued to rain models. A French Vogue reporter was doing a piece to camera, while familiar faces posed in front of store-fronts for photographers.

I slipped into Jimmy Choo, and came face to face with Cindy Crawford. Embarrassingly, she totally caught me checking out her phenomenal legs. So I took a photo, because everyone else was.


In DKNY, I asked a lady who the woman was in front of the TV camera. “Oh that’s Stacy London, from What Not To Wear.” She had barely finished the sentence, before I ran back out on the street. Just in case.

Passing more stores, I noticed what looked like food on a table in one. I quickly pretended, that - “Woops! I accidentally went past that store I’d been wanting to go in,” turned around, so that I could pretend to shop, before casually approaching the food table.

On the food table, glass vases were filled with all things raw and vertical. Carrots, celery, asparagus, cucumber, and thank god – some kind of extremely long cheese. I subtly pulled a cheese stick from the vase. I was the only one eating. I took a bite – and crunch! It was not cheese, it was some kind of strange root vegetable, that tasted and felt similar to chalk. Trying to pretend I was fine with that, I walked out on the street, taking a fake bite, before hoicking the rest.

Then, in a tragically clichéd moment, I stepped out from the curb, and nearly got hit by a bicycle. A total sugar daddy, in a killer suit held his elbow out and said “Here, you better take this.”
I smiled, and said I was fine, but he insisted. “At least let me get you across the street.”


He was being rather charming and I still had the word’s of my friend Chelsea “Never say no to an invitation!” in my head. So I took his arm, and crossed. As we strolled towards 5th Ave, we got to talking. He was from Persia (look out!) and heading to a party at an art gallery near by. He invited me to join, then after talking about Austrlia, he offered to cook me an Australian dinner some time in his apartment on the upper East Side. “You can bring your friends if you like. We can make it a party.”

This was all a bit too much. So I dropped him at the art gallery, we kissed on the cheek, and parted ways.

I needed to get back to my office, and put my feet on solid ground. And just as my finger’s hit the keyboard, I got a text from the black model/banker, confirming our date for Friday.

Craziness is happening!!!