I love walking in the city.
I use Google Maps like crazy (“I’ll be there in 23 minutes!!!”) I break out my Common Projects (at that price, I got enough for the whole summer!!!) I put Pandora on my iPhone and I’m off.
And yes, I sing at the top of my lungs sometimes, who cares, this is New York.
The problem is when it’s time to put my heels on.
No, I can’t go to all of my meetings wearing sneakers. So I do what all women who feel they have to wear heels to impress people for meetings do: I change my shoes like a loser on some hidden street corner.
Oh, how I hate doing that. First you have to find a discreet place to do it, then you have to take your heels out of your bag (which always takes three hours, people think you’re dealing drugs, your heels get caught in the straps of your purse, your purse falls all over the place, forty-five things fall out onto the ground, and there’s no Mister Big (yeah, leave me alone, the other day, I needed comfort, so I curled up in a blanket and watched the entire first season of Sex & The City all over again) (I’M NOT PROUD) (but I’d finished all the episodes of Game of Thrones!) to pick up any of it for you.
If the heels have straps, add a good two minutes of misery into the mix, and you wonder why mules are back in style this summer.
Plus, there’s always that great moment when you lose your balance and end up barefoot on the asphalt. Very pleasant.
The trick is to make sure not to change into your heels too close to the meeting where you’re about to go impress people. You wouldn’t want to find yourself nose to nose with the person you were about to try to shock with your amazing sense of style.
Which, of course, has happened to me, or else I wouldn’t even think about telling you.
So now I do it three blocks away from the meeting place, I try to do it as quickly as possible, and then I go on my way. It takes me a good ten steps or so to get my mojo back.
But every time it happens to me, I think of you guys.
“I should really do a post about all these dumb little embarrassing moments that happen to me about twelve times a week, actually.”
Like when my bathing suit decides to take its own little vacation when I’m at the beach. Ok, that doesn’t happen to me twelve times a week. But it happens, especially since I get really bored lying on the sand, so I spend all my time in the water playing around in the waves. Or at the pool, playing ball with the neighborhood kids.
And in the little time I’m in a two piece, at some point, things go south. One day, just like that, I ended up having to feel around in the murky bottom of the Montauk seas with my feet for half an hour. Gross.
But at the same time, I can’t really complain: it’s not like I have a very developed sense of personal space.
That’s what happens when you work in fashion.
All it takes are a couple of private sales and a few trips backstage to completely forget that dressing rooms exist. Even though it’s been a long time since I’ve gone to a sample sale (tired of having to fight my way through them just to end up buying a bunch of random things I’ll never wear)(ok, I say that, but just last week I was rummaging through the stock at Acne’s sample sale like my life depended on it – I managed to leave without buying a pair of concept shoes, though. Yay for me, right? But anyway, that sample sale doesn’t count, Acne is in my building!!!)
So anyway, when the dressing rooms are all occupied in a store, I don’t wait for three hours for them to become available like a normal and well educated person. Like any fashion girl, I put the skirt on over my pants next to the dressing rooms to see if it fits me. Then, in my excitement, I take my pants off to make absolutely sure the skirt lays well. Then I pass the skirt to my friend (she’s also next to the dressing rooms – birds of a feather) who thinks it’s a great skirt and wants to try it on too.
Let me remind you, we’re not at a private sale, it’s just a normal shop.
Then she asks me to go find her a tee-shirt to go with it, which I hurry to do, finding myself right in the middle of the store, if you’ve been following (hehehe in case any of you ladies have gotten distracted by now)(or guys)(yeah, no, I’ve given up on the idea of a guy reading this far in) without the skirt (that my friend is trying on) and without my pants (which are on the floor), so — IN MY UNDERWEAR.
I slink back to find my friend, totally beet red.
Embarrassing moments of the woman in a hurry.
Speaking of embarrassing moments, I’ve always wondered how girls who wear push up bras, I don’t know… on a “date” (ok not me)(no dates OR push up bras)(I wish! I’d be able to wear many more cropped tops) manage the transition between “Hey, check out these C cups” and “oh, look, they stayed in your hand when you took off the bra”.
Is it like changing into heels? You find a little moment to yourself to switch bras during the evening?
Come on, I don’t know! Just wondering!!!
Translated by Andrea Perdue