Fashion Week (Month) & Mental Breakdowns

Fashion week: F/W12 or A/W12, whatever, Fall and Autumn are the same fucking thing. I only had 2 mental breakdowns this season, that’s quite a feat for me. I’m currently flying to Miami drinking a bloody mary and sitting next to the human equivalent of Gollum. This asshole has been hacking up what could only be actual lungs since I’ve boarded this flying piece of tin. I’m listening to music trying to drown out the horror. Some people have no shame OR respect for anyone but themselves. I’m also watching Tyler Perry’s Whitney Houston’s funeral as I stuff these warm cashews down my throat. Everyone is just ridiculous.

This season I only did two shows for fashion week, but worked in showrooms everyday, which I prefer, they pay you ACTUAL money, as opposed to “trade” which never fits or makes its way to your agency. The first show I did was at the Plaza Hotel, you know, where that heartthrob Macaulay Culkin stayed when his family left his ass at the airport. 12 girls were in the show but only 11 showed up, and we had to change in a closet that had to be the size of the dungeon that Austrian Fritzl chick was kept in for 24 years. My shoes were too big, as usual, because size 8 is so rare (I’m being sarcastic, can you tell?) so my walk down the runway was like a drunk Jersey shore slut after popping mad bottles at the club, ugh. I did have 3 mini-cupcakes! Lana Del Rey’s new album was on a loop, so I couldn’t tell if I was actually enjoying myself or just happy familiar music was playing.

For showroom Karl Lagerfeld was one of my main clients. I worked with a Russian girl from my agency, and an 18 year old new model from Compton. Like, straight outta Compton, she was a hood rat but proud of it. Her weaves kept coming loose from her head. Apparently Indian hair is where it’s at, but very scarce in Southern California, which is why she plans on getting a quality weave after she gets paid. Good plan. Karl’s line was beautiful. Look at me saying “Karl” like I know the motherfucker. I heard he’s quite the pushover of a designer but the man knows how to dress a lady. Sample size is usually a 0 or 2 in the US. Italian size 2 is a 40, which is what I wear. All the samples said 40 but were made for 12 year olds. The way I put on his leather pants is comparable to watching a praying mantis die.

I had multiple conversations with the Russian where I had NO IDEA what she was saying, yet nodding at everything:

“They think I’m pregnant because I put on weight over the holiday, but I tell them I have many pregnancy tests at home and I am just hungry.”
Wait, what? You keep pregnancy tests at home just in case?

“My boyfriend never visit how could I be pregnant? I don’t take pill but I don’t had period in while, so maybe I am.”
Was that a sentence?

She’s always asking me for things too,
“I am sleepy can you hand me my sweater and water bottle and iPad I no want to get up.”
Ok, sure I guess?

After one of my runway shows I met a friend for drinks. My makeup was slutified and my hair was teased into a bees nest but I was so delirious I couldn’t care less. I like having friends who are confident. I feel inferior to most of my pals because I’m a model, and no matter how hard I work at my job there’s no progression to becoming a better model. In fact it’s the opposite! The older you get the less desirable you become, which is a chief motivator for finding a more copacetic and fulfilling career for myself. I love talking with people who see more potential in myself than I tend to. It’s a reassurance that I don’t have to be just the tall skinny pretty girl forever and I have talents that don’t involve wearing size 0 leather Lagerfeld pants. My ass did look like a white J. Lo in them though, HOLLA.

My month of being grouped into the semi-normal working society of NYC has come to an end, for now, but it gets me to a place where I feel comfortable being busy. I like myself more when my mind is occupied. I make more of an effort to talk to friends and I feel physically adequate. I would love that feeling to continue during the slower months of sporadic castings and occasional jobs, but I focus most of my energy on worrying. There’s only so much Zoloft I can take before realizing it’s my own self who needs a creative outlet to the mind numbing world of being a walking mannequin.

Day 3 of 20

Yesterday I was working in the showroom with a girl who was 5’10″ and weighed no more than 100 pounds. She was fresh out of high school from Florida but spoke German as well. I had to refrain from making Holocaust jokes, it was just too easy. Her skin was so transparent I could see all 206 of her bones. She didn’t look a day over 93. Before the first client arrived the waiter offered us breakfast- mini blueberry muffins, croissants, bagels, etc. I took a muffin and ate half of it. Betty Bulimia kindly rejected his offer, her excuse was that she doesn’t eat processed foods. Are you shitting me? How awful is your life?

Myself and the other 2 models quickly change in and out of clothes to show the flaming gay lead fashion director from a well-known department store. I stumble out in heels that are 2 sizes too large and a dress that is pinned in 5 places to compensate for my size 32B boobs but size 4 hips. I stop in front of the pristine white table that has 6 well dressed people seated at it, all of which are wearing far too much makeup (even the men) and expensive Chanel watches. There’s a plate of mini-cheesecake squares, macaroons, and brownies in the middle of the table that of course has not been touched. I walk over to the table like I love my life and the dress I’m wearing. I’ve done this hundreds of times but still don’t know where to place my gaze. I uncomfortably make eye contact with each person, awaiting their reaction of the garment I’m wearing. Silence…

“She looks great, but a normal person would look hideous in this!”
“What happens when someone with breasts wears this?”
“What’s going on with the seams?”
“Is this bra friendly?”
“Look at how its bunching at her hips.”

I stand there with a smile and give them a fake laugh when they mention how small my chest is. They ask me if I would wear the dress. I tell them “of course! it’s one of my favorite from the collection!” yeah right, I can’t exhale and the material is as soft as my pubic hair after 2 days of not shaving. I would probably be more comfortable in the room Alex from A Clockwork Orange was locked into with his eyes pinned open watching horribly offensive videos. I turn around and walk back into the closet. Repeat.

This is my life for the whole month of August. I am a walking dartboard in the fashion world for criticism of designers . I sometimes wonder why they don’t put the clothes on a mannequin and just roll it out to the clients. It’s baffling that a job like this exists.