I miss my mom. It’s been since January that her tall, willowy frame has hugged my short and sturdy one. I mention my frame because yesterday I was wearing a fitted shirt and a French woman asked me if I was pregnant. It leaves an impression. My response was cold and icy even though she just has poop for brains.
I remember reading something by a (French) ex-Condé Nast employee, about how she told her colleague she was tired on the elevator in New York and the person looked at her like she had the plague, like one could catch “tired.” I’ve been telling everyone I’m in good form and not drained after Fashion Week. Even though right now, I am strangely spent. Strange because I didn’t have that much responsibility really, (the work will come later), but it has left me all stirred up mentally.
I’m not sure who these people are that never get tired, the ones who look like they burn 1,000 calories soaking in the tub, the ones who are always on. I can’t trust a person who is always on. How can you scream that 10:00 am is an uncivilized hour to be out of bed at a show? That is a performance. If you are tired, don’t scream.
A good lesson: I am constantly astonished by the overbearing confidence of those I meet--not intimidated, really, but humbled--only to learn that in fact, I can do the work just as well as they can. I am just not as loud.
But I am self righteous!
What about when I go to magazine parties and sit in the VIP room and
dance with my hands over head and wait for taxis at 4:00 am with the
ex-manager from Air in my new heels and have THE BEST TIME EVER? Then
I come home and make observations about the excessive nature of the term “Ciao ciao” on my weblog?
So that’s what I’m talking about when I say stirred up.