As I left my French class this morning, I noticed quite a commotion in front of the Hotel de Crillion – what is it with that place?! There were lots of sleek black cars and skinny people smoking cigarettes. A harried woman ran by with a bag of mannequin heads. Photographers clamored around the door.
Apocalypse? Nah, it’s fashion week daahhling! I’m so glad I showed up, wearing the leggings I slept in and a t-shirt. I apparently caught the end of the Balenciaga show, with group after group of very tall, very severe looking models exiting the building and jumping into waiting taxis.
I overheard a photog standing near me speaking in a breathless southern drawl, looking like his head was going to explode from the sheer awesomeness of each chiseled cheekbone that strode past. A second later there was a huge commotion at the door, and Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr appeared. I almost squealed. Almost.
Then Giselle walked out. Giselle! Wife of Tom Brady! The french photogs were all shouting “Geeee-zelle! Geee-zelle!” and I just stood there gaping, wishing I had maybe brushed my hair. And for the love of god was she tall and skinny! Weirdly so. It made me hungry just looking at her.
Then the fabulousness was over. The paparazzi dispersed, the red carpet rolled up. And I went to get a sandwich, with extra lardons, s’il vous plait.