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.) Continue reading
Do ALL packs of girlfriends, when convening as a group for the first time in a long time, immediately dispose of bras or bikini tops or any other clothing apparatus that shields ones’ bare breasts? Do they all also immediately dispose of any semblance of sobriety, reaching for Coronas and spiked lemonades and shots of tequila as soon as the hello hugs are out of the way? Do they cancel any and all scheduled dinners or activities that would otherwise require covering up said breasts and/or ceasing to consume vast amounts of alcohol and pot and ciggies in a teepee? Just curious.
