It’s never more apparent that you’re NOT at Fashion Week than when you’re scrolling through Instagram in a leaky nursing bra and men’s underwear, sitting on a maxi pad bleeding like it’s your middle school period. Having a new baby while other Fashion People are at Fashion Week is a great way to feel like a shell of your former self, and I know this because I’ve had a new baby during two Fashion Weeks and felt compelled to write about it in the Notes section of two iPhones. (Excerpt from when Kai was straight from the womb, in February 2014: I’m laying perfectly still in a small apartment that rattles because of its proximity to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and I’m wearing a milk-soaked plus-size top by Jessica Simpson and elastic waist leopard-print pants that are bunched up around my knees. Twelve years ago I interned at Vogue with sparkly, interesting people, some of whom have become television celebrities, internationally known editors, wardrobe department icons and acclaimed novelists. And so on, you get the gist.)
Do I even LIKE Fashion Week? I did, back when we were assistants at Condé Nast, before the recession, when we rode around for hours in black Town Cars getting drunk on free champagne and sitting front row at every show, pretending to be our bosses who plunked stacks of invitations on our desks, bored, asking if we’d go instead of them.
A lot has changed since then, thanks in no small part to social media and the sharing revolution which makes it even more obvious that we are now shoveling shit instead of hauling gift bags. Here, a little slideshow in honor of this being the first New York Fashion Week (#NYFW!) that Nicole and I have simultaneously sat out because of (/thanks to) our little monsters (/angels). I hope you get to click through it during a 3AM feeding when your maniacal laughter reaches peak madness.
12TH AND A 