I’d really had no intention of leaving the house last night. I was perfectly propped on my couch with a fully charged iPhone, a season of Billions, and a bowl of ramen from my favorite spot down the block. Then that fully charged iPhone I mentioned started to chirp incessantly, and while I ignored it at first, I saw it was my dear friend, Veronica, who is going through what some may refer to as a “rough patch.” When I answered, it was hard to hear her, but I could make out, “get here now,” “fabulous people,” “front row,” and when she hung up, I received a follow up text with the address and a lot of punctuation.
I gave my ramen a last glance and knew that it was my civic duty as a good friend to go and meet her. I wondered if my NSF Shane Pants were wearable and decided they would look quite Wang if I ditched my Euclid Sweatshirt for a croptop and stuck with the slouchy bottoms. A pair of Schutz Rene Heels tied the look together and I smudged some Stay All Day Liquid Lipstick on in an attempt to make the look a polished form of disheveled.
Deep breath, glance in the mirror, and into my Uber, I went.
A scroll through Instagram: Gigi, Gigi, Kendall, Fashion Week, ice cream, donuts, more donuts, and then I had arrived at my destination. As expected, it was another Fashion Week circus, bloggers, the photographers who love them, and a ton of frazzled PR aficionados running around trying to corral the crowd. I managed to slip through the masses only being stopped few times for a snap before essentially colliding with Veronica. She handed me a pamphlet and I saw I was here to see Opening Ceremony. I felt relieved knowing that scraping myself from the couch when I hadn’t wanted to wasn’t in vain. Opening Ceremony was one of the most sought after shows to score a seat.
The show was amazing, I was able to actually enjoy it from the front row (good work, Veronica), without the nuisance of forty cell phones blocking my view- but we all know the shows are really all about the after party and this was an after party that didn’t disappoint. Models mingling with muses, artists chatting with suits. It was the perfectly mismatched mix every fashion PR house hopes to assemble. A couple of signature cocktails into the evening, I told V that I needed to make my way to the ladies room. She was engrossed in a conversation with a beautiful man with face tattoos, so I’m not even sure if she heard me, but pointed in the direction I assumed was the restroom. I made my way through the crowd and was just making eyes with one of the male models when I went sliding, spilled my drink, and nearly face planted on the table of grilled cheese and lobster. Fortunately, some sort of angel caught me by the arm before I caught a truly humiliating fate. I looked up to thank my guardian angel and immediately began to laugh as did she.
She said her name was Amanda and she complimented my shoes. After procuring me a fresh beverage, she mentioned that i might want to put some protective stickies on the bottom of my shoes. I said she was probably right and joked that I didn’t know how models did it. She leaned in and informed me that the stylists for the show had used a product called Save Your Sole on all of the stilettos for this very reason. I remarked that stylists were genius and I’d certainly missed my calling. A bit further into our conversation, Amanda revealed who the real genius was— Her.
She is the mastermind behind Save Your Sole and had been instrumental in this evening’s show. How could such a laid back Australian babe be so nonchalant about her success? That’s just the way she is and why we immediately bonded. I told her about my current working situation and she told me she was looking for someone to help with spreading the good word about shoes. We exchanged information, gave a quick hug, and I made my way back to Veronica who was now in a serious relationship with face tattoo. Rather than rain on her parade, I bid her adieu and found my way to the nearest exit.
And to think I’d almost stayed home.