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.  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.

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 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.