by Andi Dorfman
So I frantically ditch the designers and run through a set of black curtains and into a random room. The same girl dressed in black who brought me backstage follows me. I tell her what is going on. Telling her makes me feel terrible. I feel like a shitty human being for being so petty and avoiding an ex. She tells me she totally understands and graciously calls a car to come pick me up immediately.
Of course, the next morning, the tabloids run the story that Number Twenty-Five and I were both at the same fashion show and I made a point to avoid him. It makes him come off as a stalker and me as a wuss.
The week continues with a few more fashion shows during the day and parties at night. Some are wild, some are fun, and some, like the Victoria’s Secret after-party, are just downright disheartening. Nothing like seeing Gigi Hadid and Kendall Jenner at a table filled with other “Angels” in the flesh to make you feel old and weathered. And to make matters worse, every hot guy in the place is trying to flirt with them while all the old guys in the place are trying to talk to me and Ava, whom I brought as my plus-one.
All the while I’m wondering why the fuck I even bothered getting ready for an event like this. An event where not only did I not stand within a few yards of these six-foot-tall enigmas but where, when it came to finding a man interested in me, I didn’t stand a chance. What is it with guys and models anyway? Sure, they’re tall and skinny, and most of them are really, really pretty. But who gives a shit? Don’t they know that ten years, two kids, and a few cheeseburgers from now, those girls are not going to look the way they do now?
With the end of the week nearing, I’m down to my last show, Nicole Miller’s. They, too, messengered over some outfits for me. I manage to make my way to the same venue as the first show, where the scene is the same, except that there are no umbrellas waiting for me as I exit the car, but the paparazzi are still there in droves. The show ends up being the best one of the week and it’s not over yet. I’ve personally been invited to a post-show dinner later hosted by Nicole Miller herself.
I bring Ava along with me since dinner, wine, and fashion are three things I know she’ll never turn down, and the two of us make our way to Vynl for dinner.
We arrive a little late, having no idea what to expect as the hostess takes us into the private room. I immediately survey the scene as we find our assigned seats. It’s cougar central. There are a few cast members from The Real Housewives of New York; Lindsay Lohan is in a corner booth with her posse (she actually looks pretty good). Ava and I are seated across from each other.
I’m next to an older man who introduces himself as Ty-Ron, a stylist. We immediately start talking all things fashion. He tells me how he’s Tyra Banks’s stylist, how he’s styled covers for Cosmopolitan, blah, blah, blah. He gets through his list of accolades just in time for the server to arrive and ask if I’d like red or white wine, to which I obviously reply, “Red.” This gives me the opportunity to turn and meet the woman to my left. She looks to be in her midfifties and the creative hippie type.
“Hi, I’m Andi,” I say, reaching out my hand. She doesn’t respond. Instead, she just stares at me for a few seconds. “I know you from somewhere.” Here we go again. I play dumb, telling her that I’m not sure where she’d know me from. She fires back with a slew of questions, asking my occupation, where I live, where I’m from, etc. But she still can’t place me. It’s an all-too-familiar game that you’d think I’d have figured out by now. But what am I supposed to say? “I was on reality television”? I leave her dazed and confused as I turn back to talk to Ty-Ron. I’m midsentence when there’s a tap on my left shoulder. “I know where I know you from!” she exclaims. “You were on a reality show, weren’t you? The Bachelor, right? ”
“Oh yeah.” I say it as if I’ve forgotten I was ever on it.
“That’s it! That’s where I know you from! I don’t watch that garbage, but my daughter loves that show!” She doesn’t realize that she’s just offended me by calling a show I was on “garbage.” She goes into a rant about how much her daughter just loves, loves, loves, the show. As she’s telling me this, she takes a hit of a vape pen that I didn’t notice lying on the table next to her fork. She continues on about how her daughter has always wanted to go on the show and asks if I think she should. “Yeah, why not? ” I say.
“Well . . .” she says with a condescending fuck-you chuckle, “you don’t understand, my daughter is a junior studying biomedical engineering. My daughter would only go on it as a joke. She’d just make fun of it the whole time.”
“You’d be surprised, producers can usually sniff those kind out pretty easily.”
“No, she’s smart, she’s studying biomedical engineering.”
“Yes, a junior? Right? ” My sarcasm wizzes by her.
“Wait a second. The attorney. You’re the one that guy called out for making love to him if you weren’t in love with him, aren’t you? ”
“That’s me!” I say with a smirk.
“Ahhh that was awful. Okay, so tell me how does an attorney end up on television, and I don’t mean this to be offensive, I promise.” Too late, lady.
“I don’t know, I just did.” I start to turn to my right to save myself, but before I can, she blasts yet another insult. “I mean, geez, were your parents disappointed or what, maaaann? ”
Oh no, she didn’t. I know that I can’t make a scene because I’m at a private dinner party and I have no idea who this lady is and what relation she has to Nicole Miller. Hell, she could be her sister. Bitching out the designer’s sister would definitely put me on the not-invited list, which would mean I wouldn’t be able to go to both Nicole Miller and Alice and her friend Olivia’s shows ever again. But I also can’t hold my tongue any longer. She needs a quick lashing. “I’m twenty-eight years old, I live alone, and pay all my own bills without anyone else’s help, I have a great group of friends here, and I call my mother every day. So to answer your question, no they weren’t and they aren’t disappointed in me. Actually, my parents are quite proud of me.”
“Cool,” she says as she inhales her vape pen.
I text Ava, who seems to be having a much more pleasant time talking to the woman beside her.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!”
We do, and just like that my first New York Fashion Week has come and gone. It was fun to be able to attend the shows and get sent free clothes, but if I’m being honest, Fashion Week isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Everything you imagine—Anna Wintour sitting front row, editors from Harper’s and Marie Claire taking notes—doesn’t happen. Instead, the front row is occupied by fashion bloggers and influencers, many of whom dress in ridiculously hideous outfits in order to get noticed. They all live-stream the show through their phones, never getting an actual unfiltered look at the fashions. And while I realize I am one of those “influencers” and only get to sit front row because of it, it makes me a little sad that the glory of Fashion Week isn’t what I imagined. I guess I just thought it’d be more glamorous, but instead, it’s pretty damn exhausting. You spend all this time getting ready to be seen, and an hour later, you can’t wait to take off the heels that are blistering your toes and the lashes that are stinging your eyes.
And you go through all of this fuss just so you can get declined an invite, run into your ex, realize you’re never going to look like a Victoria’s Secret model, and get asked if your parents are disappointed in you. But hey, at least they let me keep the clothes.
southern guilt
“Pookie, welcome home!”
“Mom, I’m not home, I’m just visiting.”
“This is always your home,” she says as she wraps her arms around me.
“Then why’d you convert my bedroom into a guest room? ”
“It’s your guest room. Dinner’s almost ready. Dad’s on the porch, say hi to him.”
My mom doesn’t need to tell me where my dad is; I can smell the cigar smoke the moment I walk in, even through the closed patio door.
“Dooley needs to go on a diet, Mom,” I tell her, provoking the mother of all eye rolls. “Hey, Dad!” I lean down and give him a kiss on the cheek.
“Hey, dear! How are you? How was your flight? ”
“Flight was fine. Delayed, of course, but fine.”
I take a seat in the wicker chair next to him. He mutes the flat-screen television that is sitting on top of a matching wicker end table. The cable cords that lead to the back are attached to an orange extension cord that runs across the patio floor. It’s the most redneck thing I’ve ever seen.
My dad takes a swig of his Scotch and looks me up and down. “What’d you dress for a funeral or something? ”
“What do you mean? ” I look down at my all-black ensemble.
“You look like you’re going to a daggone funeral.”
He’s doing that thing again where he accentuates his Southern accent. It’s funny because my dad is really only a pseudo-redneck. He was born in Atlanta but in the city parts, not the rural, and if you’re a Southerner, you know that those few miles of separation can make all the difference. But he’s a Scotch-drinking, football-loving, avid fisherman and hunter who has all the makings of a redneck. The fact that all he ever wanted in life was to have boys who played sports and instead got stuck with three crazy-ass women in one house I guess entitles him to speak however he wants.
“Dad, this is how we dress in New York.”
He takes a puff of his cigar and blows a perfectly shaped ring into the air. “Like you’re going to a damn funeral? ”
“As if I’d go to a funeral in ripped jeans and Vans,” I mumble.
“Vans? ”
“Forget it. I see you still enjoy the perks of being a redneck. Couldn’t manage to find an extension cord that wasn’t bright orange, huh? ”
“Oh, this here, this aiiiiiiiin’t redneck.” His twang has reached a new level of Southernness.
“You know they make wall mounts for televisions and you can hide the cords.”
How the fuck did I ever live here?
I head back into the kitchen, where my mom is making dinner, a rarity. Growing up, we used to say the best thing she made was reservations. She’s actually not a terrible cook—when she actually cooks. Tonight she’s cooking lobsters, a family favorite. Well, I guess I shouldn’t say she’s cooking but rather transporting the lobsters from the Styrofoam crate they came in to the pot of boiling water on the stove. But I’ll credit her nonetheless. I pour myself a glass of wine and take a seat on top of the granite counter next to the stove.
“So tell me everything. How’s the apartment? How’s Mad Mary? Is she still giving you shit? You know I’ll come kick her ass.”
I love when my mom gets protective and aggressive like this. The thought of my mom—at five foot three and no more than a hundred twenty pounds soaking wet—kicking anyone’s ass, let alone Mary’s, is just comical. But she talks a big game when it comes to protecting her daughters. “Screw with my kids, and you’re dead,” she always says, and part of me genuinely believes her.
I start to tell her the apartment is great and that I’ve done some reorganizing of the furniture since she was there and that Mary is as maddening as ever.
“Any boyfriends? ”
I knew this was where the conversation was leading. “No, Mom.”
“Any dates? ”
“No, Mom.”
I can’t bear to tell my mom the truth, because the truth would be that the last “date” I went on went a little something like this: I flew out of the country to meet a guy, he hate-fucked me, I pity-fucked him back. Not exactly something you say to your mother.
“You know, one of my girlfriends at mah-jongg asked me if you were a lesbian.”
“Oh, did she, now? And what did you say? ”
“I told her to fuck off.”
I spit out my wine out and laugh.
“But . . . are you? ”
“A lesbian? ”
“It’s okay if you are. I’ll still love you.”
“Mom, we’ve been through this before. I wasn’t a lesbian then, and I’m not a lesbian now.”
“I just worry a little about you.”
“Why do you worry about me? ”
“Well, I just want you to find someone and be happy.”
“I’m doing just fine, Mom. Don’t you worry.”
“But you said you’re not dating anyone.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not doing okay.”
I’m trying to give her an appropriate hint that I’m not having any problem getting action, but this is one of those topics that I just don’t have the slightest desire to talk about with my mother, of all people.
“Well, have you made any nice girlfriends? Not girlfriends like relationships, like friends that are girls.”
“Yes, Mom, I get what you mean, and yes, I have.”
I go on to tell her about all my different friends, mainly Ava and Jess, who have quickly become two of my closest new New Yorker friends. I told her how I met them over the summer in the Hamptons and how we go out once or twice a week for dinner. How each of us brings her own little unique flavors to the group. Ava, a magazine editor, has lived in the city since college. She’s barely five feet tall and always up-to-date on the latest trends in beauty. She wears ridiculously hideous gray lipstick, which somehow actually looks good on her. And she rocks blinding bling on her nails, which somehow actually don’t look trashy. But other than that, she’s pretty reserved. Well, except when you put her on a dance floor and give her a few drinks. She turns into a machine who can shake it like Shakira, twerk it like Beyoncé, and give off those seductive come-get-me eyes like Rihanna. She’s really quite the triple threat. But despite her moves and her ample curves, she’s the most prudish of our group when it comes to sex. She’s also quite the foodie, so she’s the best at picking restaurants. I, myself, am the most enthusiastic eater of the group—and drinker, for that matter. I love when we share food and bottles of wine, because I eat more than anyone but pay the same amount.
Then there’s Jess. If our group gave out awards, she’d be named most likely to have her shit together. She’s an entertainment publicist and a total badass. Jess has a way of offering advice that you automatically assume is right. Being in the entertainment business, she could have sold me out many, many stories ago. But she’s just not that type of person. In fact, I often think she’s too nice for the industry. She’s not a fuck-you-over type of girl, but she’s also not a let-you-fuck-over-my-friend type of girl, either. Jess and I call ourselves bury-the-body friends. Basically, if something were to happen and a man ended up dead in one of our apartments, we would call each other, and no one would ever know the asshole went missing.
Then I tell her about Sarah, who is part of our group, especially since she’s responsible for introducing us in the first place. But she travels for work a lot, so she’s hardly ever around to partake in our weekly dinners. She’s still constantly talking about freezing her eggs. We joke about whether or not she talks about them on her dates. I have a handful of other friends, too. There’s Emily, who I met at a party, who is also friends with Ava, and a few other girls who sporadically come to our dinners. It’s ironic that New Yorkers get such a bad rap for being unfriendly, because I’ve found them to be just the opposite, especially when it comes to friendships. They’re always connecting people with their friends, who then connect other people with other friends, and so on. It’s like a friendship game of six degrees of separation, pay-it-forward style, and it’s served me well.
My mom seems less worried now that she knows I actually have friends. Over dinner, we talk about my book and my life in New York before my mother hits the red-wine wall at nine and has to go to bed.
Later that night, as I lie awake in bed in th
e upstairs guest room, I start to think about what my mom said earlier in the kitchen. The words “Are you a lesbian? ” keep echoing in my mind. Does she really think I’m a lesbian just because I’m single? I know she doesn’t but does everyone else down here think I am? Not that there is anything wrong with being a lesbian, but I’m just not. And I don’t understand why people assume that if you are in your late twenties and single, you must be a lesbian. Which then gets me thinking, what is so fucking wrong with being single?
Being a single woman past a certain age has always been the equivalent of a scarlet letter south of the Mason-Dixon Line. And now that I’m the one wearing it, I find it offensive, sexist, and stupid. The way I see it, I’m twenty-eight, and I’ve been in relationships for the better part of my last decade, including an engagement that ended nastily. Wouldn’t now be a logical time to be single? To be on my own and figure out life without the mess of a man?
When did being single become such a thing to worry about? Why do people look at single women with those sad eyes that you know stand for “Oh, poor thing, she’s still single.” News flash: I’m not miserable being single. I’m actually quite the opposite most of the time. I live in New York City, I have great girlfriends, I pay my own bills, I have no obligations to anyone. If I were a man in the same position, I guarantee you not only would nobody be questioning my choice, but people would probably tell me not to settle down anytime soon.
