Skinny Jeans

As I wait for my flight from New York to San Francisco, I find myself surrounded by free airport WiFi and a desire to reincarnate my trip to the land of books, fashion and urine scented sidewalks. It is solely because I want to tell you about how my husband tried to crash the Behnaz Sarafpour fashion presentation at our hotel, Desmond Tutu Center in Chelsea.

You notice I said presentation.

Mr. J was disappointed as he had practiced his catwalk prowl in our room, but alas, his skill and swank were not needed.

"You look constipated."

"Damn. That is not the look I was going for. What about now?" He flung his hips forward and sauntered as I clapped my hands and tears streamed down my face.

"You bounce too much."

He walked back to the window in our room, watching the fashion elite enter to flasks of water as girls with the sexiest, most amazing shoes I've ever seen checked their clipboards and spoke into their headsets.

"I have to go downstairs."

So, there we sat. In the claustrophobic boutique hotel lobby. Two chairs facing a cadre of men and women floating in to see the presentation.

He asked the woman with the flasks, "So, why are people in and out if it is a fashion show?"

"It is a presentation. The models stand in place."

"That's disappointing. I know they would've asked me to walk if it was a real fashion show."

Thankfully, our newest friend had a great sense of humor.

We watched men saunter in with designer handbags, hair piled high atop their heads, women with legs for days and shoes that were likely hiding a year's supply of Bandaids.

"Well, Little. It looks like I need some skinny jeans and a trench coat."

The water girl laughed and moved the microphone of her headset away from her mouth, "And very big sunglasses so you can be somebody."

"My aviators don't work?"

"Bigger."

"Hm."

She smiled, "Not that it means anything to you guys, but you've just watched the biggest editors in all of New York come and go."

I looked down at my flip flops and thanked my lucky stars they didn't recognize me.

We stood to head out, thanking the water girl for the action.

My 6' 1" jock neck husband then jutted his hips out and tried his best to float.

Just in case they changed their minds.