Five Fashion Closet Secrets from a New York Magazine Intern1. Models have cellulite. 2. Women, and some men, always carry two pairs of shoes to wear during the day. 3. Food at photo shoots consist of plain lettuce and cigarettes 4. Most models actually wear sizes four to six; what you see is the magic of Photoshop. 5. Everything in the cafeteria is non-fat and low carb |
Eight million people live in the Big Apple. With a good pair of stilettos, I stomped the cement for three months to find that the Big Apple was not so big, but small.
Suffocating with big buildings and big bank accounts, New York City is your typical player. He looks great on the outside, but under the sheets you’ll find small-minded people, small patience levels, small waistlines and very small spaces.
Fergie’s “Glamorous” repeated over and over in my head upon moving toward the bright lights and starting my internship at Lucky magazine. Seeing that New Yorkers love to bitch and complain, I fit in well; however, I can’t complain about everything.
I lived on the Upper West Side between Central Park and Riverside Park. My sidewalks were not filled with camera-clutching tourists, Wall Street guppies or the infamous Harlem crowd (which is not that bad!), but consumed with strollers, runners and small dogs. Being that Edie Falco and David Hyde Pierce were among my neighbors, I had a shared, large two-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, air conditioning and not-so-bad-for-New York rent, I would pinch myself if I started to miss home.
Scraping the sky and plunked in the middle of Times Square is a place where the most popular stories and reputations are born and a place where piles and piles of Tiffany’s diamonds, Manholo Blanik pumps and Fendi bags lie. This was my work? I say it with a question mark because it still boggles my mind.
Fergie said it right, “Flossy, flossy.” Days at the magazine were spent in tinted Lincoln’s gathering diamonds for Heidi Clum, getting A-lister gossip from the stylists, sneaking up to Vogue to see the interns leaving in tears, more couture clothing than a small city and spending lunch breaks among the most fashionable, gorgeous people. Weekends were spent drinking $15 martinis, gazing at original Picasso’s, shopping Fifth Avenue, eating at outdoor cafés and people watching in Central Park.
Yes, it was glamorous, but just like done-up hair – everything goes flat eventually. After awhile I turned off Fergie and went back to Dave Matthews, threw my hair up and traded in the pumps for vintage boots. My love affair with New York had turned astray. My feet ached and were constantly swollen about two sizes above normal, I was tired of the sweaty subway packed with people that would fall like Jenga’s when it moved, rats nearly trampling your feet walking home at night, looking out my bedroom window to a brick wall, people never saying “excuse me” and, of course, the cockroaches.
I missed large, empty aisles at the grocery store, being able to know people walking down the street, courteous drivers giving you waves and smiles, buying a beer that didn’t cost more than $10 and, well, seeing endless amounts of trees.
New York is a fascinating place, but when I came home it wasn’t about the fashion shows or five-star dining; it was about living. Word on the East is that West Coasters are “too laid back.” I say, “What is wrong with that?” The difference is we work to live, and they live to work.
In a way, I feel I was shamed. New York was like a fake designer bag: It is so glamorous in the beginning, but it falls apart really fast.