My least favorite part of yesterday was when I got in the standing room line for Betsey Johnson, even though I had a seat. Since I was just ten minutes late, I assumed they were still processing the regular line (this tends to take forever). Why couldn’t I learn this lesson during some boring crap show?
Thanks to my Fashion Week retardedness, I found myself standing behind a row of tall, pushy people, behind eight rows of seating. Boo. My view was limited, for the most part, to Janice Dickinson (sparkling like a showgirl) and Kristen Cavalieri (why is her hair like that?) fake having fun in the front row.
On my tippy-toes, I’m about 5’3″, but I managed to glimpse many of the 50-plus outfits that came swaggering down the runway. Betsey’s greatest works were, as usual, her party-girl outfits. I wanted to tear through the masses and rip a striped, silk number with poofy sleeves right off the beehived model.
My favorite part of today, though, was when a banner came down reading “GRANDMA TO BE,” and Johnson emerged for the customary designer-worship finale. Unlike most, she doesn’t meekly wave and then scamper back behind the scenes. No, she dances and shrieks and takes her time. This year she also bestowed a bouquet of roses to her very pregnant daughter—just before performing her signature cartwheel.
Gift Bag: People who stand don’t get presents, and Betsey’s, which come in bright pink bags, are known to be good. Cry for me.