In the wee hours of the morning, at precisely 6:47, I begin my daily one-eyed doom-scroll. I prefer it to coffee. It sets the tone for the day. A few swipes in, it starts to dawn on me that New York had a very busy night while I fell asleep in front of yet another serial killer trial. Judging by my feed, everyone who is someone was out and about. ShopMy party. Another dinner. Another party. Another cocktail I would absolutely have ordered. Well, it is that time of the year again. Not Christmas time. Fashion Month has begun and so has the circus.
By 7:03, my feed has capitulated. Street style, backstage videos, front rows, outfit changes, and so many people filming themselves crossing the streets. Traffic must be terrible. The yellow cab drivers must be loving it. Everyone is walking en costume, with either a rehearsed candid face or a resting bitch face, behind dark sunglasses despite the complete absence of sun. I watch one Reel, then another, then another. I keep watching. Much ado about nothing. Riveting.
I throw my phone into the depths of my duvet. Ça suffit. But wait a second, where is my invitation? The world, or at least my entire Instagram, apparently has plans. I have to drive Nelson to the vet. He is due for one of his shots. By the time I get back from Surfside Veterinary and Wellness Center, still no email. No message. No mysterious delivery waiting at the door. Did I really think I was going to get invited? Seriously? Acknowledging that I was being slightly delusional did not improve my mood. In one last attempt to salvage it, I came to the only reasonable conclusion. Perhaps New York was a lost cause. That said, there is always Paris. I am French, for God’s sake. Could I be acting a bit unhinged? I check my email. Net a Porter has 15% off selected items, and Bergdorf is having some sort of gift card situation.
Last week, The Closet Theory reached 100 subscribers, yet I am certain the Chanel press office did not disinvite Grace Coddington to give me her seat. I remind myself that I am not an editor at Vogue. I do not have a column at The New York Times. Then again, I visit the Chanel website several times a day. At this point, someone in the analytics department must at least know I exist.
In a parallel world, my assistant, Emily, walks in and places the Chanel invitation in front of me. I don’t react. Obviously, I am invited. Who else? I remind her to find out what they are lending me to wear and continue casually with my day. Eventually, the Chanel offices have a bout of amnesia and thoughtfully forget to ask for the look back. “Would you like to use the card on file?” This is definitely not the Chanel counter. Emily is behind the desk at Surfside Veterinary and Wellness Center, waiting for me to pay Nelson’s invoice. I am still thinking about Paris while Nelson, freshly vaccinated and completely indifferent, waits beside me.
On the way home, with my good old Nelson as my copilot, I start thinking about the matinée I have just conjured for myself. I created an invitation that never existed, a crisis nobody knew or cared about, and a trip to Paris that was never on the books. Fashion gave me the shows. Life gave me Nelson’s rabies shot. I supplied the drama. The Closet Theory it is. You would think that would be the end of it. It was not.
New York passed in a blur. London followed. Still nothing. Whatever. It had never really been my thing anyway. Milan, well, why would the Italians even think about me? But by Paris, I had recovered my self-esteem. This is home territory. It is the last day, and the Chanel show is around the corner. There is still time.
As the show starts, I resign myself to the fact that my invitation has officially failed to reach its destination. I watch from my phone while sitting in horrendous South Florida traffic. The collection is beautiful. The styling is excellent. I open Chanel.com. No hard feelings.
Bisous,