“Excuse me. May I take your picture?” – a streetstyle photographer hurriedly asked me. I stared at him in disbelief.
“HELLO?” – he snapped and I myself snapped out of it and struck a pose. His equally New York-y (read “impatient”) photographer buddy asked quizzically while pointing at my dress: “Is that Rodarte?” to which I responded, “If you think it is, then yes.” I deflated when she asked if it was really from Zara. Oh well…
When I made the decision to finally get my butt to New York Fashion Week, I knew I had to put together a bank of outfits that was worthy. I am realistic though. I’m a microinfluencer who, while loves fashion, doesn’t care enough to go bankrupt building a fashion blogger-worthy closet. I like what I like, and that’s it. For some reason, I would much rather buy seven outfits for my dog than one pair of Bottega Veneta Stretch Sandals.
Experiencing NYFW was just that. I wanted to sit front row at great shows, meet influencers that I revere and frankly, enjoy the Big Apple which just so happens to be my favourite city behind the Great London, of course.
My pal Robin stressed the importance of being photographed for fashiony news outlets, so “be sure to bring the most extra stuff you can find to attract photographers.” That just…sigh…wasn’t important to me though. Dom needed to be Dom, which is all me donning my favourite ladylike things that are generally in soft, neutral and muted colours. I’m okay with that. I was definitely ok with the Kelly Cutrone-lookalike photographer who thought my polka dotted Zara dress was Rodarte.
Zara though, makes me want to scream. I LOVE THIS DRESS, but it tore apart four hours after putting it on. The string that forms the empire-waist, propping my boobs up in breast augmentation-like glory, gave up the ghost and wiggled itself right out of the dress. I could have cried…and thankfully, my pal Samantha was there to give me a hug.
My wizard of a seamstress was able to repair it, but yeah…seeing my boobs sink to the floor when the string broke loose set in motion the next two years worth of therapy.
I’ll persevere though and always look fondly at this dress that got the attention of a streetstyle photographer. Yes – I was so excited and shocked about being asked that I didn’t get his name and have no idea what publication the shot appeared in. Sigh. You live, you learn…you never buy Zara again.