This is not a metaphor. I’m literally burrowed in a cab, pressing the underside of my Marc by Marc dress into a gushing wound. (You say, “Ew.” I say, “Come on, this is nothing. Haven’t you seen Hunger Games?”)
The annoying thing is, it’s not even a cool injury. I could have at least been skateboarding… or snowboarding… or fighting for space at a Kills concert. Instead, I decided that just once I’d dress up for Fashion Week. Like, really dress up, you know? Like Man Repeller dress up. Like street style bloggers chase me, Beatlemania-style, down an alley. That kind of dress up. So I pick out this Marc dress. And this Dannijo necklace. And a pair of hot pink designer stilettos that I really thought would be okay. Then I try to grab a cab in Soho and trip on a cobblestone.
Actually, “trip” is an understatement. Really, this is how it goes: Somehow, my five-inch heel locks into a groove on the street and my body basically catapults across Sixth Avenue. I look like my school cafeteria nightmare: one of “those girls” who’s such a poser, she can’t walk in her own shoes. I feel even worse—like my bones just snapped in half. And when I press myself up to a standing position, my big accessory is no longer a Phillip Lim bag. It’s a steady stream of blood running down my knees. Awesome.
The good news: my cab driver has Band-Aids in his glove compartment. (It would be cooler if he had actual gloves, but not as helpful.) The better news: I somehow slipped into the show on time, with miraculously few black-and-blue marks. And I guess it’s a good thing, because I’m supposed to be reporting on my adventures in fashion for you guys.
I suspect it’ll be more like misadventures—otherwise known as total disasters—but we’ll see how it goes. Especially since I can definitely run in these new shoes without having an ambulance on standby.
In the meantime, here’s some fun stuff I saw at NYFW…