The Fashionista Files

by Karen Robinovitz

  Restalyne—An injectable filler for frown lines. For advanced and older fashionistas only, please. Fashionista podiatrists, like Dr. Suzanne Levine in NYC, shoot up the balls of the feet with Restalyne and collagen to add cushion to make wearing heels more comfy. God bless.

  Botox injections in the armpits—Prevents sweating (excuse us, perspiration), which will save you money on dry cleaning, my friend.

  Laser treatments—Fashionistas love all sorts of lasers— plumping up the collagen on your face, getting rid of scars and stretch marks, zapping sunspots—plus you get to wear those cool glasses. Also, any new age-defying treatment will do.

  Cellulite massages—Hard-core massage treatments that are supposed to break up your fat.

  Colon therapy—Nothing like a high colonic to rid you of the toxic perils of white flour and Diet Coke!

  A good night’s sleep—That means bedding with a high thread count (anything less than three hundred is not acceptable; Frette sheets are preferable), an eye pillow, a Tempur-Pedic mattress (the best money can buy), and Threadcountzzz pajamas, made of cotton with a thread count of eight hundred! Fact: Sleep deprivation leads to stress, aging skin, and weight gain.

  FIT FASHIONISTAS

  Starving in Style KAREN DAY 1

  I am on an airplane, debating whether I should eat the meal the flight attendant places on my tray table: lasagna, salad (only half-wilted!), roll (not that stale!), and some kind of dessert that resembles a white square with a red dot on top (strawberry shortcake, I’m told). Under normal circumstances, I’d pass. But I am on my way to We Care, a holistic detox health spa in Desert Hot Springs, California, where I will be fasting on a careful prescription of juices, supplements, teas, and water, getting daily colonics, and indulging in luxurious spa treatments to stimulate my lymph system, rid my body of dried skin, and take care of stress knots. I’m staying for a week.

  This may sound like torture, but for fashionistas it’s considered a spiritual, even vital experience that is said to replenish the body, mind, and soul. The body accumulates toxins and carcinogens, not to mention preservatives and chemicals from processed foods, and you must unburden yourself of them. Some experts, however, do not agree, and think that fasting and colonics are not that great for you. Whatever the case, We Care has garnered a cultlike following of high-profile Hollywood types—agents, studio heads, and celebs like Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Liv Tyler, Alicia Silverstone, supermodel Gisele Bundchen, and Courtney Love—who think of the desert destination as a bona fide refuge, at $2,000 (and up) per week. The weight loss is not supposed to be the point, but it sure is an added plus, and one of the reasons I decided to check in.

  So I opt for the plane food. My last supper—even though I was instructed to eat only fruits and vegetables for three days before arriving. I arrive at four o’clock and Annie, a petite yogi with cropped spiky hair, a dark tan, and the kind of upbeat energy that belies her seventy-something age, orients me to the program. I am given a baggie of meticulously labeled pills—acidophilus, which I’m to take after each colonic, digestive enzymes (two each morning and two in the P.M.), power green (a food supplement that has the same benefits as vegetables and algae and other nutrients), and fiber pills—along with teas (blood, liver, and heart purifiers) and minerals for taking a detox bath (I’m told to take two during my stay).

  Then she explains the drink plan: As much water as possible, a teaspoon of Kyo-Green (a green powder to mix with water in order to get the kind of vitamins and minerals you’d find in greens), two detox drinks daily (a fiber-packed beverage that tastes like dirt but helps stimulate the digestive tract), a pure vegetable juice for energy (part carrot juice, part greens), and pureed vegetable soup (to be had in the evening as “dinner”).

  It is overwhelming. “So much to remember,” I say. The thing about We Care is that it’s not one of those luxury places where someone makes drinks for you and brings you what you need. It’s bare-bones, very do-it-yourself, to keep you aware of what you’re putting in your body. Not eating is very hard work! Deprivation is so extravagant!

  I am here not more than one hour and I’m already hungry. “It’s mind over matter,” says Simona, who is giving me my first colonic of the trip.

  Postcolonic, I have the acidophilus and the soup. Some We Carers—a fashion publicist, a Hollywood agent, the former VP of a major television network, a bank CEO—lounge around in the “common area” (a living room with cushy sofas and a gaggle of magazines) and talk about their days.

  Talk shifts to—what else—food.

  “I’m craving Chinese food in the worst way,” whines a hungry woman wearing a bathrobe so big, it’s swimming on her lithe frame.

  “Oh, don’t get me started on food. I’m dying for something to eat,” chirps her friend, who pauses for a moment and then looks on the bright side. “But this is the good soup. It’s better than last night’s.”

  “The trick is to have it early. By the end of the night, it’s watered-down, bottom-of-the-barrel stock,” says an athletic-looking, gray-haired, six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound man who’s been here for three weeks (three weeks!).

  After the soup, which, admittedly, is pretty damn good, I hit the sack. I’m jet-lagged.

  DAY 2

  SIX A.M.: I swear, I’m already thinner. My day begins with a teaspoon of castor oil, which is good to take an hour before a colonic.

  TEN A.M.: Colonic.

  ELEVEN A.M.: I pop an acidophilus, take a nap, drink my Kyo-Green mixture.

  NOON: Yoga class and the detox drink (yuck).

  TWO P.M.: Sink into the massage table for an eighty-minute rubdown to stimulate the lymphatic system. When I emerge from the pampering session, I feel like Jell-O. I’m dying for a burger—and I don’t even eat red meat!

  DAY 3

  EIGHT A.M.: I jump out of bed too quickly. I feel faint and light-headed. But my wooziness goes away when I catch a glimpse of my hip bone in the mirror. I have always dreamed of having a hip bone I could see (not the loftiest of ambitions, but at least I can admit it).

  TEN A.M.: Surging with energy, I take a two-mile walk in the desert and, for the first time in months, feel truly relaxed. It’s delightful. My colonic, however, is rough. Nothing is coming out.

  ELEVEN A.M.: I take a nutrition class with Susannah, We Care’s founder, who speaks knowledgeably about the dangers of NutraSweet (switch to stevia, an all-natural substance, she recommends) and teaches us how to make the perfect smoothie. I’m so inspired, I buy the $400 Vita-Mix blender (and I’ve never cooked or made anything other than salad in my adult life).

  TWO P.M.: Three people tell me I look thin (!). And when I call Mel, she is shocked. “I haven’t heard you this mellow . . . ever!” Just when I think I can’t feel more lucidly calm, I slip into a hot detox bath for thirty minutes and then get a deep-tissue massage. Ah, life here is good. Even though I miss cupcakes.

  DAY 4

  FIVE A.M.: Headaches, shivers, chills. I do not feel good. “This usually happens at this time,” Rory, We Care’s manager, a blue-eyed Tom Cruise type with bulging biceps, tells me later.

  TEN A.M.: Rory makes me a small smoothie with soy milk and Integris, which levels the blood sugar, to revive me. It works. I am so clearheaded that I rush to my room and work for three solid hours.

  FOUR P.M.: Nap time.

  SEVEN P.M.: Watch Maid in Manhattan, a rental. But I barely make it through five minutes before falling asleep. All of this relaxation is really tiresome!

  DAY 5

  TEN A.M.: I am skinny! And starving. I mean, starving. I put on the TV and find myself salivating over a dog food commercial. Dog food! It looked just like a Fig Newton!

  ONE P.M.: My “body facial” appointment, a two-hour treatment involving mud wraps, coffee-bean exfoliation, and a massage. But the real reason I signed up for it—it comes with a smoothie, a large mango-flavored smoothie. And right now I would do anything for something with more substance.

  DAY 6

  NOO
N: For lunch I have digestive enzymes, acidophilus, Kyo-Green, carrot-greens juice. Later I do my detox drink, power green supplements, and another detox drink. More than twenty glasses of water later, I am feeling alive, well, and fabulous. My skin looks good. My hair feels soft. The bags under my eyes are gone. I may be ready for a nice piece of salmon, but at the same time this not-eating is really working for me—mentally and physically. I plow through work at warp speed.

  ONE P.M.: During a trip to the outlet malls, I get my reward. Gucci dress, size two, baby! I probably shouldn’t have bought it, because I’m sure I’ll gain the weight back as soon as I start eating regularly again, but I couldn’t resist.

  DAY 7

  TEN A.M.: The last day. I’m seven pounds lighter, which is a lot for me, considering I’m barely five feet tall. I pack and get dressed. I have been waiting for this moment since I arrived: Time to put on my jeans. My butt is tiny! My legs look longer and leaner. My inner thighs are not even touching. But more important, I feel— psychologically—strong, alive, healthy, and well. Plus I am as clean as a whistle.

  TEN-THIRTY A.M.: Annie walks me through break-the-fast rules— fruit and veggies only for three days; then introduce protein slowly. I swear off white flour forever (something I’ve done countless times before, but at this moment I’m serious) and plan to switch to healthier grains. Before hugging my new We Care mates good-bye, I bite into an apple. It is the best apple I’ve ever had.

  The Edina Effect

  MELISSA

  I hate to exercise. There’s nothing that strikes me as more boring than slogging your way through a workout. I was the type of kid who was always picked last in kickball and practically failed gym. Whenever friends and I played tag, I was always “it.” For years I was blessed with a healthy metabolism. I could eat whatever I wanted, but I never gained weight. My nickname was “Skinny Annie” (my middle name is Ann). But all good things come to an end, and when I hit my twenties I realized I’d have to join a health club or embrace the roll of pudge around my waist.

  As in fashion, I was drawn to the trendiest workouts. First up: Rollerblading. Two of my friends were really good at it, and I en-vied how they whizzed down the Central Park loop without missing a beat. I enrolled in classes at the Learning Annex, and a few weeks later I joined them. The bastards left me to fend for myself. I didn’t so much roll as not-walk. I was ’blading at such a glacial pace that picnickers laughed at me.

  “Yo, look at that girl! Go, mama! Go, mama! You can do it!” one cheered, snickering.

  “That’s so pathetic,” another one stage-whispered.

  But I was determined to be a ’blader, knee and elbow pads and all. The most harrowing experience was when I decided to blade from my apartment twenty blocks to the health club. I fell several times on the sidewalk, executing a perfect ass-slide down Bleecker Street. Cars honked. People pointed. But no one helped me up. (I was also wearing very trendy polka-dot bike shorts at the time.)

  That was it. The blades rusted in my closet. I tried it all: step class, hip-hop dance class, African tribal dance beats, anything to make losing weight more fun. I’ve done yoga, I’ve owned a scooter, and I’ve had several trainers who tried to whip me into shape. One told me, “You are what you eat,” after I told him I’d had a sandwich from Blimpie.

  These days I slog through my workout on the elliptical trainer—half an hour four times a week. My brother, the track-and-field champion, has told me I really need to lift weights and get muscle definition. Maybe one day . . .

  GETTING INTO YOUR SKINNY JEANS

  We all have two kinds of jeans—our everyday jeans and our skinny ones, which we can wear only every few years, if we’re lucky. Fashionistas are, like all women, obsessed with thinness. You may think fashionistas don’t eat. Well, some don’t, which we don’t recommend, save for a trip to We Care every year. But they do watch what they put into their mouths and stick to exercise regimens, even if it’s nothing more than walking through the outlet mall (four hours later, you’ll feel the burn). These are our secrets.

  Weight Watchers, the old-school system where you equate food to points, is big with the Condé Nast girls who jaunt to meetings during their lunch breaks.

  The South Beach Diet, a best-selling book with a diet that Bill and Hillary Clinton—who are not fashionistas—both swear by. We haven’t really tried the diet, but the premise is Atkins meets Sugar Busters. You’ll be sick of ricotta cheese in no time.

  Atkins. No carbs. No way. No how. Put the pretzels down!

  The Zone delivery. A delivery service of three meals and two snacks a day that are balanced a certain way to provide the right ratio of proteins, carbs, and fats. Danger: Oftentimes, followers eat the meals and still go out for dinner after and wind up gaining weight (we won’t mention any names, Karen!).

  Love. Falling in love is always a good way to slim down, because food just becomes less appealing and it’s very hard to eat with those butterflies in your stomach. But be warned: Once you’re in love and comfortable with your new man, pounds tend to pile up because you suddenly find yourself indulging in more dessert and forgoing the gym to spend extra hours in bed with your honey.

  Digestive enzymes from the health food store, which promote digestion, which speeds up the metabolism. Don’t eat without taking two with water.

  Green tea. Up to forty-eight cups a day will give you a large dose of an ingredient called EGCG, which boosts the metabolism and, hence, weight loss. But that doesn’t mean you can eat all the brownies you want.

  Yoga. No matter what kind of yoga you practice—Ashtanga, Bikram, Vinyasa, Anusara, disco (to the Satuday Night Fever soundtrack), doggie (that’s yoga with your pet), couples (with your partner), aqua (in the pool), or any other hybrid—it’s a great conversation topic with Gwynnie, Madonna, and the fashion editors at all the magazines. Fashionistas may travel to class in their leather pants and Manolos, but once barefoot on the sticky mat, they let go of the superficial and nurture their souls . . . for at least a little while. Just avoid the Gucci mat and the Marc Jacobs mat bag. We understand their appeal, but you’ll be mocked in the yoga studio, frankly.

  Pilates. A great way to elongate and stretch your muscles; the supermodels love it.

  Ballet. Uptown ladies love ballet class, followed by a proper tea at the Four Seasons hotel before an evening at the theater.

  Boot camp. Fashionistas are so in control of their lives that being pushed around and forced to run like a crazy person, go a few rounds with the heavy bag, and do some serious push-ups is a nice change of pace.

  Saunas and steam rooms. These are essential.

  Tell your driver to park a few blocks from any destination. This will force you to walk and, consequently, add muscle to your calves.

  Shop in a rush. A mad dash to try on a dozen outfits while on a time crunch will give your abs a workout.

  CHAPTER 6

  Talking the Talk:

  Gorge! Genius! J’adore!

  Words to Live By!

  Like any community of people whose members share many beliefs, world views, values, and recognized patterns of behavior, fashionistas communicate in a language all their own. Utilizing turns of phrase that are full of campy fun, our linguistic habits and insider lexicon enforce a feeling of intimacy, providing the important function of including or excluding others from the (luxury) fabric of our existence. By embracing the fashionista vernacular, you are embracing the entire lifestyle, celebrating a larger—and très chic—outlook on the world.

  Our words are more forceful, emotive, and interesting versions of everyday terms. For us, language is a way of expressing our milieu, experiences, inspirations, and desires. It’s a verbal form of a design, if you will. Like punks, ravers, bikers, and pagans, we are a subculture codified by our own particular brand of jargon and slang. Our expressions—and the way in which we pronounce them—define us, individuate us, and enhance our glamorous purpose and interests. Whether intelligently discussing technical fashion ter
ms, which may sound like crazy, indecipherable convo to nonfashionistas, or paramount issues like cuff lengths, dress silhouettes, and the many, many different kinds of handbags, we speak our minds, with fashionable style.

  We have developed and perfected our native tongue over time. Like a couture gown, our native tongue is a constant work in progress that has been perfected over time. Our communication patterns are the result of a long, involved history that flourished from our ancestry, the forefathers and -mothers of design, and the great icons and muses that have shaped our culture. This chapter is your key to talking the talk, learning buzzwords and proper lingo for all kinds of caps, capes, jackets, jumpers, tartans, pockets, shawls, waistlines, scarves, and seams. It is also an introduction to the stylish personalities who have shaped us—important designers from the past and the women who’ve inspired them (and fashionistas of all kinds). Just follow the guidelines below and you’ll be a savvy, fashionable conversationalist, able to go round for round with Anna Wintour (editor in chief of Vogue and perhaps the ultimate fashionista) in no time.

  WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?

  Faking It! KAREN

  It was a typical Wednesday afternoon on the first day of spring in Nolita, a boho-chic neighborhood on the fringe of Little Italy and adjacent to Soho in New York City. The sun sprinkled on my shoulders as I pranced down Elizabeth Street, almost slipping on a small trail of doggie poop, which I’m sure was deposited by a toy Yorkie and his doting mommy, who was probably too exhausted after a day of modeling to clean it up. The hip downtown fashion girls—a pack of fashionistas with dyed dark hair, chandelier earrings, retro Pumas, bee-stung glossed lips, skinny arms toting large amounts of shopping bags and the occasional bright orange Hermès Birkin— gallivanted in and out of Tracey Feith, Jane Mayle, and all the requisite shopping destinations that are worth calling in sick from work to visit. Street vendors peddled fruit. And Ciao Bella unveiled their newest flavor of sorbet—“cosmopolitan” (no ID required to taste).