talented designers like TT, whom
I also consider a friend. If you are not able to please the type of customers I
will be bringing in, then maybe you need to think about whether or not this is
the company for you.”
My initial
reaction was to hurl the letter opener on my desk at her back Indiana Jones
style and cut her down mid-swagger. Thankfully I was an evolved, professional
woman who did not allow silly claims from uninformed coworkers to get to her,
so I settled for sticking out my tongue at her back while she walked away.
With the hundreds
of talented designers in New York, I couldn’t figure out why Marta had hired
Scarlett to bring in talentless rich kids. If this was the way things were
heading, bandage girl just might have a point. Maybe this wasn’t the company
for me anymore. But if I didn’t work here, where would I go?
I received offers
from other companies after every fashion week. I had just deleted four emails
tonight asking me to come in and discuss the opportunities that awaited me at
other production houses. As much as I loathed Marta at times and as much as I
was getting tired of feeling like I was running this company without getting
any recognition or increase in salary, I did feel beholden to her.
She was the only
person who was able to look past my size and give me a job. Even in our small
corner of the fashion world, where we operated behind the scenes and were
rarely noticed by anyone except people in the industry, it was still assumed
that if you wanted to work in fashion—any aspect of fashion—you
needed to look the part.
At 5’5” and 185
pounds, I had never looked the part. That was actually the first comment Marta made
when I walked into the interview. She said, “I hope you realize that this job
does not include a stipend for meals; you look like you are used to being well
fed.”
Yes, imagine
bouncing back from that opening line in an interview. Thankfully, though, I had
always battled weight bigotry with a sense of humor. I fired back that I had
planned on just eating the models; I heard they were tasty and that they were
so hungry they wouldn’t put up much of a fight.
I think it was
both the first and the last time I had ever seen Marta smile. It wasn’t my
quick wit that she said got me the job, oh no, she couldn’t admit to anything
that might sound like a compliment. She said the reason she hired me was I was
big enough that no one would notice me or be threatened by me, but not so big
that people would notice me and stare at my freakishly large size. And she was
right. Yes, this was the Mother Teresa for whom I had slaved away for the last
five years.
But she was
right. I thought of my weight as my super power; it rendered me invisible to
people in my industry, which was something that had certainly come in handy
over the last year.
TT or no TT,
maybe Scarlett was on to something. Maybe it was time I looked at making a
change in my employment. My only hope was that the change would be not just
from one production company to another, but from one industry to another.
Chapter 8
Well, bitches,
it was a quiet weekend on the fashion front. Your mama did spot the newest
import from exotic India, Daniel Singh, on the dance floor at Club Ritz. He
looked like he stepped right out of a Bollywood movie. The only thing missing
was the kohl-eyed heroine by his side, something he would be hard-pressed to
find in this club full of hot gay men. Oh well, I’m sure one of the drag queens
would happily step in to play his love interest. Let’s hope his rumored resort
wear collection is as fabulous as his dance moves.
--March 16th “It’s
just fashion, bitches” blog--
Ugh, I shouldn’t
have stayed up and watched Dhoom 2 for the billionth time. There was
something about the sparks between Hrithik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai that called
to me last night. Maybe it was my own lack of late-night fantasies. Ever since
the sample day,
I also consider a friend. If you are not able to please the type of customers I
will be bringing in, then maybe you need to think about whether or not this is
the company for you.”
My initial
reaction was to hurl the letter opener on my desk at her back Indiana Jones
style and cut her down mid-swagger. Thankfully I was an evolved, professional
woman who did not allow silly claims from uninformed coworkers to get to her,
so I settled for sticking out my tongue at her back while she walked away.
With the hundreds
of talented designers in New York, I couldn’t figure out why Marta had hired
Scarlett to bring in talentless rich kids. If this was the way things were
heading, bandage girl just might have a point. Maybe this wasn’t the company
for me anymore. But if I didn’t work here, where would I go?
I received offers
from other companies after every fashion week. I had just deleted four emails
tonight asking me to come in and discuss the opportunities that awaited me at
other production houses. As much as I loathed Marta at times and as much as I
was getting tired of feeling like I was running this company without getting
any recognition or increase in salary, I did feel beholden to her.
She was the only
person who was able to look past my size and give me a job. Even in our small
corner of the fashion world, where we operated behind the scenes and were
rarely noticed by anyone except people in the industry, it was still assumed
that if you wanted to work in fashion—any aspect of fashion—you
needed to look the part.
At 5’5” and 185
pounds, I had never looked the part. That was actually the first comment Marta made
when I walked into the interview. She said, “I hope you realize that this job
does not include a stipend for meals; you look like you are used to being well
fed.”
Yes, imagine
bouncing back from that opening line in an interview. Thankfully, though, I had
always battled weight bigotry with a sense of humor. I fired back that I had
planned on just eating the models; I heard they were tasty and that they were
so hungry they wouldn’t put up much of a fight.
I think it was
both the first and the last time I had ever seen Marta smile. It wasn’t my
quick wit that she said got me the job, oh no, she couldn’t admit to anything
that might sound like a compliment. She said the reason she hired me was I was
big enough that no one would notice me or be threatened by me, but not so big
that people would notice me and stare at my freakishly large size. And she was
right. Yes, this was the Mother Teresa for whom I had slaved away for the last
five years.
But she was
right. I thought of my weight as my super power; it rendered me invisible to
people in my industry, which was something that had certainly come in handy
over the last year.
TT or no TT,
maybe Scarlett was on to something. Maybe it was time I looked at making a
change in my employment. My only hope was that the change would be not just
from one production company to another, but from one industry to another.
Chapter 8
Well, bitches,
it was a quiet weekend on the fashion front. Your mama did spot the newest
import from exotic India, Daniel Singh, on the dance floor at Club Ritz. He
looked like he stepped right out of a Bollywood movie. The only thing missing
was the kohl-eyed heroine by his side, something he would be hard-pressed to
find in this club full of hot gay men. Oh well, I’m sure one of the drag queens
would happily step in to play his love interest. Let’s hope his rumored resort
wear collection is as fabulous as his dance moves.
--March 16th “It’s
just fashion, bitches” blog--
Ugh, I shouldn’t
have stayed up and watched Dhoom 2 for the billionth time. There was
something about the sparks between Hrithik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai that called
to me last night. Maybe it was my own lack of late-night fantasies. Ever since
the sample day,
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