#110 : XOJANE THROWBACK / WHY I SLEPT THROUGH FASHION WEEK (AND WHY I MIGHT DO IT AGAIN)
Ah, the dark ol' days.
Hey! Hi from New York City, where it is a gorgeous fall day. To celebrate the launch of Jane's new Substack Another Jane Pratt Thing, I thought this would be a good time to re-visit one of the xoJane pieces that put me on the map. Looking back at it now, this essay would later become the backbone of HOW TO MURDER YOUR LIFE, a book I had no idea I'd write.
It is a very defeated essay—quite real, compared to a lot of goofy, charm offensive stuff I was writing at the time. It's about the loss of my dream, a Conde Nast career...which still makes me sad.
On the bright side, I remember thinking at the time that this was my favorite thing I'd written to that point. Leave me comments; I respond to everyone. Enjoy! xo CM
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WHY I SLEPT THROUGH NEW YORK FASHION WEEK (AND WHY I'LL PROBABLY DO IT AGAIN)
by Cat Marnell
ORIGINAL XOJANE PUBLICATION DATE: February 9th, 2012
I read every comment left on my articles on this site, and many of you have mentioned that you feel resentful or envious of what you understand to be my glamorous (and you're right, it is) life. And now it's the most glamorous week of all—Fashion Week—and maybe you're a little jealous that you don't have a job like mine, or that you don't live in New York, working in the glamour industries.
I used to feel jealous too, every Fashion Week when I was young, that I wasn't there. I get it. The media's Fashion Week deluge actually isn't that fun when you're not invited. Am I right? I mean, that's definitely how I used to feel.
When I was climbing the ranks of magazines, there was nothing more painful for me than when Fashion Week came to town and erected it’s big white tents in Bryant Park, like some Calvin Klein-y minimalist circus.
I spent nearly five years (ages 19 through 24) interning and freelance-assisting and then on-staff assisting at various magazines—first downtown at Nylon for about a year, then at various titles in the Conde Nast building in Times Square, just down the block from the tents—before I ever got to participate in it all.
I WILL be an editor someday, I’d think as I helped the NY/LON editor in chief’s assistant walk his two grouchy shar peis through a downpour to the Tribeca Grand hotel, where the editor-in-chief was staying while his loft was renovated (comped, of course—he’d swaggily traded the hotel ad space in his magazine).
I WILL be an editor someday, I’d think as I packed up garment bags and hand-wrote shipping labels in the fashion closet of VANITY FAIR, hideously misspelling “Comme des Garcons,” “Giambattista Valli,” “Junya Watanabe,” “Maison Martin Margiela,” “Miu Miu” (“Mui Mui”) every time.
I WILL be an editor someday, I’d think as I wrapped (terribly; I suck!) bottles of champagne that the editor-in-chief of TEEN VOGUE was sending out as gifts (yup, just like in that book), or when the shelf in the beauty closet I was organizing became unhinged and a bottle of Thierry Mugler Angel fell on my head.
I WILL be an editor someday, I’d think as I tallied the results of thousands of “Glammies” ballots, alone in a GLAMOUR conference room for days at a time, or reheated coffee for the (very, very nice) beauty director because it wasn’t hot enough and would I mind, dear? (Of course I didn’t mind. Interning is strange heaven.)
I WILL be an editor someday, I’d think as I stood in line at the 43rd Street Starbucks, then argued with the cashier because my boss at LUCKY wanted organic milk in her grande misto and I knew they had it; they were just being lazy and didn’t want to fetch it from downstairs. (It’s true; you can request organic milk at any Starbucks!)
And when I am an editor, I'd think, I will fucking go to Fashion Week!