I always knew I would work in fashion, in some permutation.
In 11th grade, I was allowed to drop a class for an internship. Au revoir la classe Francais, allo Sassy magazine. That summer, after a semester of being indoctrinated into the world of fashion by the most popular teen glossy magazine, I swallowed my deep-seated aversion to other people’s feet (a phobia I still carry) and hustled, hawking the wares at a high-end purveyor of women’s footwear, with the singular goal of raising the long green to buy a navy blue Ralph Lauren Collection gold-buttoned double-breasted blazer, adorned with an obnoxiously large gold crest on the left breast pocket. So tunnel-visioned was I in this goal that I earned a surplus of capital large enough to reward me with a Fendi tote, as well. Was this not how other seventeen-year-old’s spent their hard-won dough?
Fast forward none-of-your-business-exactly-
Whatever you call it, it works for me. And while I still do love pretty trinkets and donning a sassy new outfit when I have the chance, there’s no tangible object I covet with the-white hot passion of my seventeen year-old self.