Fatshionista Read Free Page B

falling into a routine argument with someone, a
spouse, a friend…an employer…you needed to physically alter yourself to break
the mental path your mind was taking. Since your mind was so used to having the
same argument the same way every time, you began to fall into that rhythm, paying
little attention to why you were having “this” argument, and just had the same
argument.
     
    My favorite
suggestion was to put on oven mitts any time you found yourself falling into
this pattern. I smiled as I imagined trying to juggle my clipboard and my
coffee while wearing bright red, plaid oven mitts. At least this relationship
would prepare me for a boyfriend. I had to believe that one day I would have
enough time to meet the perfect man who I could argue with while wearing oven
mitts. Ahh, a girl could dream.
     
    “I think the set
looks splendid, Millicent.” Wow, that opinion changed quickly. God bless what
might be the onset of short-term memory loss. “My only concern is that the
saris are too…I don’t know…colorful.”
     
    Yes, because the
last thing you wanted in a sari was exotic, beautiful color. Maybe we could
just hang white bed sheets over his logo and be done with it.
     
    “Well, Marta,
with the show coming up tomorrow and these being the specific saris that Ram
flew in from Mumbai for this show, I think we might just have to learn how to
live with them”.
     
    “Hmmmmmm.”
     
    Oven
mitts…oven mitts…oven mitts.
     
    ****
     
    Normally I sat
either in the very back of the venue or at the front left corner of the
catwalk. I always needed to be able to see if the cues were coming on time, if
the overall flow of the show was timed correctly, and it gave me a brief moment
to enjoy the fruits of my labor. My headset kept me connected to the chaos of
backstage while also being able to take in the production as an audience member.
I loved fashion. Loved fashion. But I couldn’t sew and I was not a size zero,
so I found another way to participate in the industry.
     
    The long nights,
the frustrating conversations with Marta, the numerous other volatile
personalities I had to interact with on a daily basis, and the complete lack of
a social life seemed almost, almost worth it when I was able to see a show go
off without a hitch (or at least one noticeable to the audience) and a talented
artist get the attention they deserved.
     
    Sometimes the
attention was good, sometimes…not so good. But as in most things, any publicity
was good publicity. Even a show the critics hated was still a show that had
garnered the attention of the fashion world long enough to be critically
massacred. While it wasn’t easy for a designer to face that kind of criticism,
I had seen it make them stronger or make them go home. There was little room in
this industry for people who weren’t confident about their vision. It was that
confidence and that willingness to design their way that kept them in the
business. Everyone liked an underdog. There was nothing better than a designer
triumphing one season after being critically annihilated the season before.
     
    The Ram Patel
show was exquisite. The Moulin Rouge Hindu dance scene-inspired stage
was the perfect backdrop to his Indo-Victorian creations. Tight waists, high
collars, color, color, color, and decadent jewels created a look that would be
seen in cities all over the world. The final piece was a ruffled, high-neck
tangerine dress with mutton sleeves. Very Victorian from the front, but when
the model turned around, the dress was backless. Hanging down the middle of her
back was an elaborate kundan-inspired necklace straight out of a maharani’s
jewelry box.
     
    Were this a
football game, I would be sporting a giant #1 on one hand and a foghorn in the
other, cheering at the top of my lungs. But alas, I merely slid my clipboard
under my arm and politely clapped along with the rest of the crowd.
     
    I could not wait
to get back to the office and download all the stills from