Naomi Campbell’s abused assistants. Calvin Klein’s boy toys. Donna Karan’s Pilate instructor. I pity you all.
Having spent the previous evening with my nose in a Land’s End catalog, I question the sanity of anyone who works with a fashion designer.
With two laptops and a stack of catalogs between us, I spent a grueling two hours with my fasionista 8-year-old attempting to pick out back-to-school clothes. I had hoped to snap up a couple new outfits. Savannah wasn’t having it, as she approached the mission with the intensity of a designer preparing to show her fall collection.
“Hey, how about this?” I would say, pointing out yet another outfit, hoping to quicken the pace. It would be some ruffle tiered magenta skort or t-shirt with a glitter peace sign. What kid wouldn’t like these?
Savannah would lean in and squint. I hear her little head ticking: “Yea, but is it something CeCe and Rocky would wear on ‘Shake It Up’?”
After a long moment of silence, she’d say: “I like this!” It was always the most expensive, adult-like item. Once she flashed black suede boots that I myself would wear.
The $89.00 price tag made me cringe. There is also the ex-factor. He’s notorious for throwing out apparel he deems inappropropriate, which are most my purchases. It’s a problem that merits its own post.
I re-directed her back to this skirts, emphasizing that how “cute” – her favorite word – the would look when worn.
By 9:00 I was exhausted and out $300. She’s 8. I dread the teen years.
I now understand why my parents sent me to Catholic schools. It had nothing to do with God or religion. It was the uniform.