Diary of a non-Fashionista at Fashion Week

Ok, so I’m running late.  I haven’t had a chance to change out of my school pick-up clothes, dinner has just spilled on my sleeve and I’m starting to panic.  I’d already had a media shoot earlier that day, where I’d been wearing a very cute, but not really functional LBD.  I dab on some blush, throw on a blazer, grab my gear and go. 

Immediately, I know I’ve made the wrong choice. I’m surrounded by spectacular fashionistas; I mean everyone is dressed to the hilt. Tonnes of orange, the colour of the moment, and accessories and heels for days.  Suddenly, my mommy jeans and blazer feel very, very dumpy.  But at least I’ve got my kick ass Steve Madden spike heels and my ultra-cool Dooney & Burke camera bag. 

I grab my media pass and walk right into Jay Manuel.  I’m not joking, I mean right into him. 
I’m breathless and spazzing and frantically reaching for my camera as someone grabs him for a snapshot.  I regain my composure, and start shooting.  My light balance is off, my toning sucks, my focus is questionable but my finger keeps shooting.

And now I have my moment, my one moment to ask him all the things I’ve ever wanted to know, like what was it like growing up gay in Scarborough in the 70’s?  How does it feel to be on the other side of the carpet presenting your own line instead of prepping someone else’s?  What’s the tangible difference between presenting at Fashion Week here instead of New York or London -you know, brilliant things like that.  So what do I ask?  Like a lame, anxious, timid, dork I blurt out “So when’s Canada’s Next Top Model coming back?  Are you making more?”

You can sense the eye roll before he politely says “You’ll have to ask CTV about that, it’s really up to them.”

Heart sinks as foot belatedly goes in mouth.

Crushed, I rove the room perusing booths where the sponsors are splaying their wares.  And then I realise I’m late getting into the photo pit.  As I diligently follow the signs for “Media”, I end up in the Holt Renfrew private party with a goody bag and a glass of wine thrust in my hand.  I could get to like this.

But no, no, I’ve a job to do.  I diligently hand off the glass and tuck the goody bag into my camera sack as I hot foot it to the pit.  Which is packed and swarming by the time I finally get there.

I carve my way into a spot and immediately regret having run a half marathon yesterday.  What was I thinking?  My thighs are aching, my knees feel like sandpaper on Jell-o and my joints are contemplating a divorce.

 Regardless, I brave through cramped poises and awkward angles -not to mention having to shoot around Jian Gomeshi’s surprisingly large head, and see some spectacular offerings from our amazing Canadian designers.  I immediately spot my must-have dress, and again cringe over my dinner stained mommy jeans. 

Ah well, there’s always tomorrow…