Fashion Journalism, Among Other Things

Sorry I have not written in a while, but finals are quickly approaching (which is a problem as I am not entirely prepared) and I have been busy doing not-so-interesting stuff.

One interesting thing, though, that did happen was my trip to Teen Vogue. First of all, I got to the Condé Nast building right at lunch time, so a slew of impeccably dressed women wearing $1,500 bags and $2,000 shoes strutted out of the elevators, passed my sorry little self in the lobby, and went out onto the hot New York streets in order to buy the best salad and coffee. It was quite entertaining to watch.

The actual tour started a half hour late, but it was not a disappointment. The closet was not as big as I imagined, but there was an entire wall dedicated to converse sneakers in every pattern imaginable, as well as many TOMS shoes and different leather boots. The hallways were all filled with racks of clothes labeled for different shoots, and young editors were constantly running around, moving jackets and pants to different racks before they got sent out.

I did have three celebrity sightings, except I don’t know if one of them really counts. One was when I was eating lunch at this cute little restaurant near Lincoln Center and I looked over to see none other than Barbara Walters. She was leaving a table near me with some other really young person who looked like could have been interviewing her.

Also, at the Scholastic Awards Ceremony, Tony Hawk skateboarded down the center aisle of Carnegie Hall. He was the judge for the video game portion of the contest, so he gave a little speech and then skateboarded away. It was a little weird and his speech was … lacking. (This is the sighting I am not sure counts.)

Finally, one of the stars of the current 90210, Shenae Grimes, is apparently a new intern at Teen Vogue while 90210 is on hiatus. I saw her in the closet and then leaving, and one of the people I was on the tour with shamelessly went up to her and asked her to take a photo. I did not do that, so I do not have a photo to share.

So, overall, the experience was really cool and I am still considering having a career in fashion journalism one day. We shall see.

To end, this is just a very short story I wrote today. I am not sure how to end it, so suggestions are welcome (meaning if you read my story, you are basically required to give me at least a one word response on your feelings about the piece)

A lesson for a girl who does not yet know of her own beauty

 I see you walking across the road, shoulders slumped, body hunched, trying to be invisible to the wind. I see the way you hold yourself, an arm around your rib cage, trying to keep everything inside. Your fingers tremble now, barely noticeable. Almost like a rabbit’s foot when it wants to move but doesn’t have a destination. I wonder if you know yet your destination.

I see your hair as it blows across the freckles your mother loves, and now as the strands hit the tip of your lips. You bite the bottom one, the one that juts out and becomes chapped in the winter. Always. A trickle of blood comes out, but you do not taste it.

You do not move your hair to put it behind your ears, instead you like the way it hides you, swirls around you, turning you into something – anything — that could hold a mystery. You imagine that the tendrils alight around you, casting shadows across browning weeds and pages of a forgotten newspaper. You fear tucking your hair away, showing your face. You are afraid of someone finding out that you are merely human.

Now you are stopping, sitting on the curb, your sneaker turning over loose pieces of gravel. One piece rolls away from you and your fingers grab at it, nails becoming chipped on the ragged pavement. But you don’t care. You try not to care. You shouldn’t care. They are just nails and this is just another afternoon of sitting and waiting and dreaming. Oh, how you love to dream.

There is a piece of glass next to your toe, and I see it before you do. It’s just a sliver, left from the night before when I heard loud voices and chimes against rock outside my window. The glass reflects sun and what could be heaven into your eyes, but you just notice how the shadow of your body is outlined against the curvature of the glass. You notice how your features are one round line after another, continuing like the sea, undulating across careful lines and restrictions, breaking preconceptions. So you take the glass and pierce your thumb.

I can hear your pain just as I heard those loud voices the night before. The sound seems to seep through my thin walls, windows, until it is in my ears. The sound travels around the hollows of my ear, shallow crevices all too tender to the touch, until it finds the empathy it has been searching for.

I slowly relax my grip hold on the windowsill and let myself fall back. I can hear the contact my spine makes with the pillow, a small echo of collapsed air, but I feel nothing. Once, this used to scare me.

Now I simply breathe. Once. Twice. I enjoy the movement of the ribs, how they are defined against the almost invisible layer of skin. Sometimes I count them, delight in how the number never changes. It is a constant. I need constants. The inflation of the lungs as they take in a piece of this earth alarms me. I feel the whole body expand, but once the air is let out I feel again the familiar emptiness. Once again I feel as if I could float on the air of my exhale.

There is a glass of water on a table near my bed, but the arm feels too heavy and I cannot lift it. It is just the arm, not my arm, for this is not my body. It cannot be my body. It cannot be anybody’s body. It is simply a vessel I have let wither away, watched in pleasure as suddenly the skeleton of my existence made itself clear. It fascinated me, how such a brittle thing could define me to the world. It fascinates me how easy it was to let it all go.

You are getting up, picking your bag from the damp grass and shrugging it back on your stooped shoulders. I cannot hear a sound as you make your way farther down the road, to an inconspicuous white or gray or beige house, and let yourself in. I cannot hear if there is anyone there to greet you, ask you about your day. I cannot hear how you answer. And this bothers me.

For you are walking home with your feet and on your legs. You are fixing your hair that is thick between your hesitant fingers. Your body is your own, and you take it up with elegance and an ease that I have either lost or have purposely thrown aside.

 And you have forgotten, or never realized, how lucky you are.