Chic to Cheek

Does your butt fit on the 8.5 inch side of an 8.5 by 11 piece of paper – with room to spare? (I’ll wait while you go check.)

Mine doesn’t, I was reminded daily (and multiple times a day) during Paris fashion week this week. That side of a piece of paper (and sometimes a bit less) is the amount of space you’re allotted to sit on at the shows – one of several things that makes Paris fashion week so difficult for me to handle.

It was an exhausting week. There are the hours -- besides the shows, last night I was at scary fashion party until 3:30 a.m. (not fun), then had to be up at 8. (And on a Sunday.) Then there is the constant feeling of being sized up and found incredibly lacking, not just because of my size, but because of my outfit. (Don’t tell me no one’s looking at my outfit – that’s what everyone in the room does for a living.) And the constant rudeness of fashion PRs (don’t get me started) and the frostiness of the ice queens that are the fashion pack. Karl Lagerfeld on Friday showed his Chanel collection on a runway that looked like faux snow, saying it was because he was
sick of hearing about global warming. Let me tell you, no warmth has yet hit the fashion world.

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At last night’s fashion party, I talked to girl who used to be the fit model for Rochas – the person on whom the sizes are based. She is 21 years old and six feet tall, and by her own account, she has trouble walking in vertiginous heels because she’s so tall and not nearly wide enough to balance. This is the person on whom sizes are based? New York, Paris and Milan, we have a problem.

Also at last night’s party: Jessica Biel and the Olsen twins, the latter of whom are two of the most unattractive women I’ve ever seen. And their outfits! It just goes to show that if you’re skinny and rich you really can wear a trash bag (preferably by Alexander McQueen).

* * *

Luckily, I did not stay in a hotel frequented by the fash pack, so did not have to face glossy hair, perfect makeup, and insanely expensive outfits at 7 a.m. What I did have to face at that hour was a breakfast buffet – and in Paris. Tarts and breads and muffins and pastries. But I ignored them – literally walked by them without turning my head – and stuck to fruit and yogurt.

This morning after I finished eating I took a quick look at them and felt a pang. Not of hunger, but of sadness. Three months ago I would have been trying to figure out how much I could eat without anyone noticing. I would have been eating quickly; shamefully. I wouldn’t have been able to look in the eye the waitress who comes around to offer tea or coffee. I’d start the day too full, and the feeling of being sick and full and sick of myself and disgusted would last all day – as would the cravings for more.

* * *

This afternoon between shows I met one of our Paris freelancers for lunch at Angelina, a Belle Epoque tea room on the Rue de Rivoli. It’s famous for its pastry and for its hot chocolate, but I wasn’t planning on having anything sweet. I had a salad – until P. started pushing that we had to have dessert. That I had to have dessert. I refused three times (yes, he’s persistent – he’s a journalist!) then gave in. I didn't feel like explaining, for one, and suddenly I thought: This is Paris and I haven't had any pastry or chocolate and I have to allow myself treats every once in a while, right?

The hot chocolate – Gisele Bundchen’s favorite, says a very good source -- is a pitcher of liquid fudge that comes with a separate pitcher of thick unsweetened whipped cream to stir in. Delicious doesn’t begin to describe it.

With effort, I managed not to finish my whole pitcher and all the cream. A smart move on my part, since my next show was Louis Vuitton, where my regulation 8.5 inches was downsized to about five. No kidding.