It's Fashion Week in Paris. Which means the city is overrun with
beautiful, super-skinny people in outrageously expensive clothes who
think they own every inch of the place. Fancy cars, fancy handbags,
I did a little shopping yesterday--first trying out Mi-prix, where
they have designer scratch-and-dent at more reasonable prices, down
in the 15th arrondissement. Didn't find anything worth buying,
unfortunately, and felt rather huge after trying on Dolce and Gabbana
jeans (that I couldn't get past my knees). However, just before
entering, a man on the street told me I was "ravishing". At least I
choose to believe that's what he said. I figure that makes up for
those fabulous jeans that would have fit my arms better than my
Then I took the Metro to the Rue St. Honoré and Rue de Rivoli area,
in search of a particularly trendy store, Colette, where I had heard
they had some fabulous shoes. Didn't find a shoe in the place, just
a lot of "super trendy" stuff displayed "super trendily" and tons of
"super trendy" people buying it faster than you can say--you guessed
it. And like as not, they would take it home and promptly forget
about it and end up some day giving it to their maid.
But, I did see my first celeb in person. Although it be a B-lister,
I saw an American model, whom I can't remember the name of, talking
with some Super Trendy guy. She is a little past her prime in the
modeling biz, but I remember her from ads a few years back. Anyway,
the reason I looked was not because she was gorgeous (frankly, in
person, she was just OK. Great bone structure, but not much else)
but because she said in a thick American accent, in English, "I think
I have time for a massage after this," and I was thinking "Oh yeah, I
am sure your life is ever-so-stressful that you _really_ need it."
Bitter, that's me.
I continued to look for shoes, of which there were none. There was a
darling jacket that I just loved on a mannequin on the upper floor.
The tag was protruding ever-so-temptingly from the neck.
I could not resist. It was so darling.
It would look great on me.
And I could wear it for _years_.
Disgusted, I hopped the metro home.
Doesn't even beat seeing Tony LIttle at O'Hare. (By the way, his
hair looks even _worse_ in person.)