Dear Fashion Industry
Dear Fashion Industry,
Gosh it’s been a long time since we last talked. A lot’s happened. I’m older now. Duh. I got married. You’d like him; he wears vintage glasses. I quit smoking and would you believe I’m smashed after only two drinks, down from six. Sheesh! The reason I don’t see you much anymore is that I don’t go out on Friday nights. I have to get up early on Saturdays for yoga. Even so, I can no longer fit into the jeans you gave me back in college. Size 2? Try multiplying by 4. I wouldn’t talk to me either.
You will be happy to know that I still wear the stilettos you gave me now and then. And the Kate Spade clutch, the one that cost me more than my rent, is still in my closet. Never used. Thanks for making me buy it. When I’m flipping through Vogue and hating myself for the triple-cream brie I snarfed at an art opening the night before (I never was strong like you), I always stop and smile and think of all the good times we shared in the women’s restroom--you flushing while I puked and vice-versa. We had it down! And I swear I reminisce all the time about the vintage years. Those moth-eaten memories that smell vaguely of rest homes--I’ll never, ever let them go.
But, more to the point, what in the hell has happened to you? I thought you would be cool forever. In fact, I depend on you to be cool so I don’t have to. But the news I’m getting through the grapevine doesn’t sound good.
Like, is it true you’re no longer friends with Kate Moss? I mean, you guys were, like, best friends 4 ever. Whatever this dust-up was, is it really worth throwing away a whole friendship? She’s only 31. I bet she's got at least two more good years ahead of her.
Look, when I saw the recent photos of Kate Moss, I for one thought she looked extremely hot. I mean what could be more sexy than a waif in a tight skirt blowing rails and having a great time? Nada. Zip. And those shots were by an amateur. Imagine what Mario Testino could have done. Really, I think grainy rail-blowing images could be huge next year. And, as you well know, there’s nothing like a little powder to take off the shine when the bright lights are always beaming down on you. Once the powder’s gone, you can use the mirror to make sure you’re still beautiful! What’s so bad about that? Martha should jump on this if you don’t.
Besides, cocaine is rebellious. You likey rebellious. Who cares if even homeless people do it? You were the one who taught me that when you run out of ideas, hit the streets and take whatever the poor people are wearing, mark it up 5000%, and sell it to Paris Hilton. I always thought that was brilliant advice. But I digress. What I want to say is that I remember the 90s fondly. You were soooooo into heroin then and damn if you didn’t look so hot. And not just heroin. If it weren’t for you, nobody but nobody would smoke. Or have you forgotten now that you’ve become Nancy Reagan’s new bitch?
I guess I should have seen this coming. There were signs all along. First it was swapping out fur for synthetics. Um, excuse me, but I really think most of us want the comfort of knowing an animal died so we can stay warm during Fashion Week. And then you got all uptight about the “sweatshops.” Listen: A) Sweating is good. Helps you lose weight. And B) Are you going to sacrifice the tiny seams and stitched details that only a child can make because a bunch of dirty hippies who think they still live in 1969 say you shouldn’t do it? V. Bad idea.
And another thing. Stylish people shop in Paris, big-city boutiques, vintage, and Saks. So why am I hearing rumors that you and Isaac are chilling in Target. Ewwww! Have you seen their pretzels? Might as well take a needle and inject yourself with cow fat. What the? You know, I once went to Target. As I was looking at a Philippe Starke-designed feather duster, I noticed that some child had left his puke-covered toy on the shelf. I ran out of there. I ran and I never looked back. Isn’t it time you did as well? Fashion, you were always a slut, but never a whore.
I’m only writing because I see what’s happening and I care. It’s too late for me, but I think there’s still time to save yourself from irreparable harm. First, you need therapy. Retail therapy. OK? There’s some people I can recommend. When you've finally accepted yourself for who you are, let’s call Kate. We’ll get dinner--eight cups of black coffee, two martinis, some dry arugula, and a pack of Skittles. My treat. I know she’ll answer if you call. Who wouldn’t? You’re beautiful.
Your friend,
Jenn
You can read my last letter, Dear Email, here.
Gosh it’s been a long time since we last talked. A lot’s happened. I’m older now. Duh. I got married. You’d like him; he wears vintage glasses. I quit smoking and would you believe I’m smashed after only two drinks, down from six. Sheesh! The reason I don’t see you much anymore is that I don’t go out on Friday nights. I have to get up early on Saturdays for yoga. Even so, I can no longer fit into the jeans you gave me back in college. Size 2? Try multiplying by 4. I wouldn’t talk to me either.
You will be happy to know that I still wear the stilettos you gave me now and then. And the Kate Spade clutch, the one that cost me more than my rent, is still in my closet. Never used. Thanks for making me buy it. When I’m flipping through Vogue and hating myself for the triple-cream brie I snarfed at an art opening the night before (I never was strong like you), I always stop and smile and think of all the good times we shared in the women’s restroom--you flushing while I puked and vice-versa. We had it down! And I swear I reminisce all the time about the vintage years. Those moth-eaten memories that smell vaguely of rest homes--I’ll never, ever let them go.
But, more to the point, what in the hell has happened to you? I thought you would be cool forever. In fact, I depend on you to be cool so I don’t have to. But the news I’m getting through the grapevine doesn’t sound good.
Like, is it true you’re no longer friends with Kate Moss? I mean, you guys were, like, best friends 4 ever. Whatever this dust-up was, is it really worth throwing away a whole friendship? She’s only 31. I bet she's got at least two more good years ahead of her.
Look, when I saw the recent photos of Kate Moss, I for one thought she looked extremely hot. I mean what could be more sexy than a waif in a tight skirt blowing rails and having a great time? Nada. Zip. And those shots were by an amateur. Imagine what Mario Testino could have done. Really, I think grainy rail-blowing images could be huge next year. And, as you well know, there’s nothing like a little powder to take off the shine when the bright lights are always beaming down on you. Once the powder’s gone, you can use the mirror to make sure you’re still beautiful! What’s so bad about that? Martha should jump on this if you don’t.
Besides, cocaine is rebellious. You likey rebellious. Who cares if even homeless people do it? You were the one who taught me that when you run out of ideas, hit the streets and take whatever the poor people are wearing, mark it up 5000%, and sell it to Paris Hilton. I always thought that was brilliant advice. But I digress. What I want to say is that I remember the 90s fondly. You were soooooo into heroin then and damn if you didn’t look so hot. And not just heroin. If it weren’t for you, nobody but nobody would smoke. Or have you forgotten now that you’ve become Nancy Reagan’s new bitch?
I guess I should have seen this coming. There were signs all along. First it was swapping out fur for synthetics. Um, excuse me, but I really think most of us want the comfort of knowing an animal died so we can stay warm during Fashion Week. And then you got all uptight about the “sweatshops.” Listen: A) Sweating is good. Helps you lose weight. And B) Are you going to sacrifice the tiny seams and stitched details that only a child can make because a bunch of dirty hippies who think they still live in 1969 say you shouldn’t do it? V. Bad idea.
And another thing. Stylish people shop in Paris, big-city boutiques, vintage, and Saks. So why am I hearing rumors that you and Isaac are chilling in Target. Ewwww! Have you seen their pretzels? Might as well take a needle and inject yourself with cow fat. What the? You know, I once went to Target. As I was looking at a Philippe Starke-designed feather duster, I noticed that some child had left his puke-covered toy on the shelf. I ran out of there. I ran and I never looked back. Isn’t it time you did as well? Fashion, you were always a slut, but never a whore.
I’m only writing because I see what’s happening and I care. It’s too late for me, but I think there’s still time to save yourself from irreparable harm. First, you need therapy. Retail therapy. OK? There’s some people I can recommend. When you've finally accepted yourself for who you are, let’s call Kate. We’ll get dinner--eight cups of black coffee, two martinis, some dry arugula, and a pack of Skittles. My treat. I know she’ll answer if you call. Who wouldn’t? You’re beautiful.
Your friend,
Jenn
You can read my last letter, Dear Email, here.
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