My life on the guest list

A couple of months ago, I started a Twitter account for my company. I've never gotten into Twitter for personal use, but I realized pretty quickly that it's ideal to use professionally. The entire platform is centered around self- and third-party-promotion, it's a simple way of connecting with like-minded brands, and, if you follow the right people, it's a great way of keeping up with new developments in your industry.

A large portion, then, of the people/companies I follow have some relation to beauty and fashion. And now that it's Fashion Week in NYC, nearly four out of every five Tweets I'm reading are related. When 80% of anyone is talking about the same thing, it feels kind of funny to be left out. It's especially odd for me because for years, I was not only involved in Fashion Week, I was entrenched in it.

In my first PR job, I represented a celebrity/editorial manicurist who would work up to 10 shows per season. For years, I would accompany her while she manicured the models, and coordinate interviews for her with beauty editors backstage.

I would arrive to the show 2-3 hours early, mostly stand around while the models were styled, and then later tried to stay out of the way while they rushed through fittings. While it was secretly thrilling, it was also nerve-racking. No one (except my client and the few beauty editors who trickled through) knew who I was, so if I wasn't actively overseeing an interview, I usually felt awkward and out of place. It could have been a dream come true for a fashion student or someone more in the society scene; since it was only me, however, I always imagined Michael Kors must have wondered about that random off-the-rack girl in the corner.

That reminds me of this one time I was backstage, chatting casually with a beauty editor. We were wearing the same pants! Or so I thought. When I asked, she said hers were some big name designer. My face turned red as I admitted mine were J. Crew. I assumed hers were as well - I hadn't realized girls my age (26?) now had access to "designer."

Who ever let me work in this business?

And that's the irony of the situation. While I can appreciate nice clothes and of course like to dress well, I have never, ever, even at my most New Yorkish, been fashion-oriented. I grew up shopping at Marshall's and being grateful for what I was given. I valued brand names for their status, not their seamwork. And while once I got in the business I could understand the cache, I still preferred to put my money toward my weekends rather than my wardrobe. Through luck, timing, and a random ad in The New York Times, I basically fell into the beauty industry, and through that, dipped a few pedicured toes into fashion. Since then, I've seen more naked model breasts than most men could dream of in a lifetime, and had better access to the shows than some fashion editors ever will. I knew it was cool, sure. But this was all before Project Runway or Sex & the City or The Devil Wears Prada elevated the industry and informed the rest of the world how cool it could be.

In 2003, I moved to a different firm that specialized in fashion. There, I didn't typically get to go backstage of amazing designers, but was responsible for coordinating shows for smaller ones. (Though I did get to work an Isaac Mizrahi show once, which was pretty spectacular. I actually worked the red carpet for that and got yelled at by Iman for hurrying Mike Nichols along the carpet. Note to self: Recognize the talent.)

Getting yelled at was par for the course when it came to fashion shows. I've been yelled at by designers who aren't happy with their press, by the press who aren't happy with their seats, and by random, unaffiliated strangers who request invitations and show up even after their requests have been declined.

Coordinating press for Fashion Week was exhausting. Much of the work takes place in the immediate days and hours before, so there were late nights spent tallying RSVPs, updating seating charts, printing out place-cards, and confirming attendance. I got through it just like any other 27 year old city-dwelling single girl - with lots and lots of alcohol.

There were fun parts, too. My first week at that job, our office held a casting for men's swimwear. For two hours on a Friday afternoon, a parade of male models came through and took their shirts off upon request. I wasn't part of that project, so just watched from across the hall, frantically emailing all of my friends about this unexpected good fortune.

The fashion work, as exciting as it was, was also a big reason I got burned out in New York. The yelling, the intensity, the seriousness of the craft. Beauty people can take themselves seriously, too, but it's always just seemed like a happier business.

I sometimes think that I'd like to work Fashion Week again - I miss the glamour, the energy, the sheer craziness of the week. Forced to ingest so many Tweets about the subject (#nyfw!), reading as everyone simultaneously celebrates and commiserates, I can't help feel nostalgic, but the greater part of me is also relieved. I guess for now I'm still okay just to watch from behind the screen.