Every few months, a friend from New York City will come visit me in Paris, and every single time, they will ask the obligatory question: “What should I bring?”
“Nothing!” I tell them, hoping that this will ensure jeans and a leather jacket while eliminating all other unnecessary cargo (and preventing a life-threatening trip down my fifth-floor walk-up in Gianvito Rossi heels). “But what if we go to dinner?” Still, nothing. “But what if I meet a guy?”Especially then, nothing.
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Ever since a Russian girl named Veronica saved me from getting my pudgy butt kicked by playground bullies at the age of 5, female friendships have been the driving relationships of my life. No matter how bleak my love life tends to get, I’m always comforted by the fact that I have a loyal team of girlfriends who have my back through thick and thin and merely bloated and potentially psychotic and whatever other state I happen to be in.
This is why I find it rather hard to trust women who have no female friends. Take Angelina Jolie – this is a woman who, despite her many virtues, publicly admits to having no girlfriends. This is also the woman responsible for the biggest homewrecking scandal of the 2000’s. See the link there? I think my dog Chloe could, and she’s more beauty than brains.
When I was about eighteen, I met a Danish model named Lars at some weird hippie trade show at Javits center. We would spent long winter evenings circling Astor Place, philosophizing about life, until I would get so cold that I would hustle him into Starbucks and buy us venti Tazo teas to avoid catching pneumonia. This is when I learned an important lesson that every self-respecting female should keep close to her heart: never, ever date models.
Which is why I have nobody to blame but myself for the disaster that occurred to me this past Thursday, when I decided, in the name of exploratory research, to have drinks with a 33-year-old male model, a gem I discovered in the vast reserves of Tinder.
As many of you may know by now, Men’s Fashion Week happens to be one of favorite holidays, effectively combining my two main interests: looking at clothes and deciphering the male species. While I am not yet considered mainstream enough to get invited to the shows (as a true artiste, I prefer to keep an underground vibe going), I did spend this past weekend skimming through Style.com coverage of the various défilés permeating Paris, not to mention observing the peculiar species known as fashion boys in their natural Marais habitat.
Following last season’s post on the 8 types of men you will see at Men’s Fashion Week, this season I decided to evaluate the shows themselves, appropriating the proposed looks to the types of men they are best equipped for.
The first thought that crossed my mind when my best friend got engaged 1.5 years ago was: “There’s no f*cking way in hell that I’m going to this wedding alone.”
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those girls, the ones who refuse to attend social events solo, terrified of being shunned as the last single lepers standing. Come think, I don’t ever recall attending a wedding as part of couple, unless you count my girlfriend-slash-lesbian-lover, Loggy. (I’m kidding, mum.) Rather than fearing social judgment, I prefer to see weddings a prime opportunity to meet fellow singles in the magical setting of 30K flower arrangements and Frank Sinatra tunes.
However, this wedding was different. At this wedding, I would be the Maid of Honor, the secondary centerpiece of the affair, interrogated on my own romantic status by every Russian parent in the Tri-State area. En plus, given the elevated stress of hustling a wagon of Vera Wang tulle all day, I could certainly use a hand to squeeze (and hand me Klonopin when necessary).
Judging by the New York Times bestseller list alone, it appears that the whole world is fascinated by the mystery that is the French woman. How is she so skinny? How are her kids so well-behaved? Is she actually sort of a bitch?
The other night over drinks, I gave one of my French girlfriends free reign of my Tinder. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that every guy she spoke in the course of two hours ended up falling in love with the French version of me. The French version of me did not over type, she did not over share, she exuded an aura of mystery by keeping her answers short, yet never appearing rude. Reading back the messages, I myself started growing intimidated by this alluring creature of so few words, yet seemingly so much substance.
