Tents

There are few things that I enjoy more than writing outside. On Monday, after the rain had fled and the last of my beloved tennis was preparing to be played, I found myself sitting in a park in midtown waiting for my colleagues to emerge. Bryant Park. Yes, it was the middle of Fashion Week, and I was wearing heels for once. (I love heels in theory, but I have this weird tall girl, height neurosis that finds me always in flats. Exhibit 1. Exhibit 2.) The anti-fur people were out protesting the Carolina Herrera show. (I don't really support fur, but my recent mantra has been Live and Let Fucking Live. It's part of my Worry Less 12 step program.)

I sidestepped a paparazzo trying to hit on me (he had a ponytail, to which I say nyet) and found a table to wait for them. A woman walked by in a beautiful blue and white maxi dress and a springy blond afro. Effortless in a way that I haven't learned to be yet. Of course when you're as anal retentive as I, effortless doesn't come, well, easily. The Sartorialist stalked the grounds, camera in tow, and I pretended not to see him. It is one of my life goals to wear something worthy of his lens, but Monday was definitely not that day.

With my prop book, The Complete Poems, 1927-1979 by Elizabeth Bishop, closed and my venti iced latte sucked dry, I went back to observing the people scurrying around the park.

I am reserved in general. New places and new people make me hide in corners sipping wine, especially when those places are protected by headset wearing gatekeepers. But sometimes my defensive position quickly melts away. And after the initial stomach flips and toe-tapping nervousness, I began to feel comfortable in my own skin. Or, more appropriately, in my seat with complimentary chocolates at the MaxAzria show on Tuesday evening.