Life Lesson #5: Played like a Nintendo, hitting the crescendo, and enjoying it for what it is…

Because of my oh-so-glamorous line of work, I got to go to the Baby Phat show that kicked off the Olympus Fashion Week Fall 2006 Collections Friday night.

It was quite possibly one of the most anti-climatic experiences of my life. Now that I write about it, I’m reminded of the time in eighth grade when I was in a dance company and was to perform for the first time as part of the troop.

The show was at New Rochelle High School, which, for those of you who don’t know, can be a slightly terrifying place. It’s enormous, both in stature and student body, especially for an awkward twelve year old with glasses about to dance to K7’s “Come Baby Come” in nothing more than a black sports bra and short shorts.

But the night before, I was so psyched that I threw up at the dinner table. My mom was gracious enough to clean it up, but warned me that I might not want to do that the next afternoon in front of several hundred kids. That didn’t exactly make me feel better.

The following day, I remember pulling up into the side parking lot which would provide us with the easiest access to the auditorium. As we piled out of the van, hair gelled back and faces painted for the stage, I felt like a star. Kids loitering around stared at us, a few of them asking who we were, even a whistle or two could be detected. Our show was going to be awesome!

I still don’t really know what the point of us being there was, besides riling up a bunch of sixteen-year-old boys to the lyrics: turn me on turn me loose / come on come on / try to hit it / it’s a hassle / come and get some of this / don’t forget da innuendo / play me like Nintendo / never ever let go / screaming so loud / you’ll be hitting the crescendo / doh ray me fa so la te doh.

We actually were the opening number, if that’s what you could call it, for the local police department’s lecture on the importance of saying no to drugs. You know, the DARE program.

Being on the dark stage right before we started, I felt as if my heart was going to literally burst from my rib cage. When the curtains opened up and the sad excuse for a spot light flicked on, there were so many faces around me that I couldn’t focus on any one thing.

Suddenly, the music switched on and the giant speaker behind me actually made the floor shake. I had no choice but to dance.

WELL I CAN HEAR THE (RING RING RING)
THE TELEPHONE GOES RING (HELLO HELLO)
BUT WE'RE STILL GETTING BUSY
(PUMP PUMP PUMP HUH)

In a few dizzying minutes, the song was over and I was crouched down in my ending pose, sweat trickling down my back and people clapping and cheering to a show I didn’t even remember doing. Back in the van on the way back to the studio, I had the strange feeling that I hadn’t even been there at all. I had worked myself up into such a tizzy that I didn’t even remember, let alone enjoy, the actual experience.

That was kind of like Friday night.

A few of us at work received the ‘golden tickets’ for the evening. Of course I was stoked - I had been to some shows for fashion week a few years ago as an intern for a men’s magazine, but I had no clue who the designers were, what I was looking at, or what I was even suppose to be doing. This time, however, I was pretty pumped. I couldn’t wait to see who would be sitting in the front row and to hear the music blast as the crazy stick figures pounded their way down the catwalk.

We joined the sorry excuse for a line forming outside of the main entrance of Bryant Park. It was a lot like the entrance to the subway at 86th Street. The only difference was the smell of dank body odor and wet metal was replaced by expensive perfumes and cigarettes.

My friend from work, Clueless, and I hustled our way up to the front, displaying our shiny red passes. After a few shoves and confirmation of identity, we pushed inside. We lost everyone else in a matter of minutes and decided to get on the next line to get into the actual tent where the show was to take place.

We finally started moving a good thirty minutes later. When we made it to the entrance of the tent, we were hurtled to the left of a rope that was meant to keep us a safe distance from the beautiful people.

“Good lord,” Clueless mumbled.

All I could think about was the Saturday Night Live skit with Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen where they pretend to be the paparazzi on the red carpet. “MK, MK, let me get a picture! MK, MK, turn this way! MK, MK, eat a sandwich!”

I shared this with Clueless and we started laughing. I kind of hoped that we got caught in the background of one of the pictures.

As our herd finally made its way into the tent itself, I was shocked at the sheer amount of people being crushed into such a small place. I don’t think there was one part of my body that was not pressed up against some stranger or another. I did note, however, that those individuals deemed far more superior than us were being whisked off by handlers without even the slightest of nudges.

It takes another ten minutes for Clueless and I to find our seats. I settled down and began my favorite pastime: people watching.

The amount of B-, C- and even D-list celebrities far outweighed the actual A-listers for sure. Not that it made a difference to Clueless. The only person she could recognize was Fat Joe (Speaking of Fat Joe - he and I would totally hit it off - if his girlfriend wasn’t knocked up, of course; our head bobs were in perfect sync to Black Eyed Peas “My Humps“).

After about ten minutes of desperately trying to point out the likes of Jay Squared (Jay Manuel, makeup artist / photo director /wannabe host and J. Alexander, self proclaimed modeling expert / runway coach / overall freak show) of America‘s Next Top Model, the chick who just won the most recent season of this show, and that crazy-ass, dyed afro-sporting Stacey chick from one of past seasons of The Apprentice, I gave up on Clueless.

“Seriously, how do you not know who any of these people are?” I asked.

“I just don’t care, Penny,” she laughed.

“You are not my friend anymore tonight,” I answered. I thought in my head how Madonna (my friend, not the celebrity) would cut someone for Clueless’s seat right now.

I tried pointing out the likes of Mya, Tyson Beckford, Andre the Giant (you know - Andre Leon Talley of Vogue), the pint-size singer who won the most recent season of Idol, Russel Simmons, Angie Harmon, Christina Milian, who could definitely fit into by back pocket, and my personal favorite, Diddy’s mom Janice. More often than not, Clueless had no idea who they were.

What I find most odd is how many of these people I’ve seen before. Fat Joe (swoon) with Big Pun (moment of silence people) my freshman year of college on 8th Street: they were both hanging outside of their giant black SUV. Robert Verdi in Bloomingdales last year, of course wearing those ridiculously large sunglasses somewhere in-between his forehead and giant bald dome piece. MTV Veejay Damien Fahey totally snubbed me not that long ago in some way too cool club down in Chelsea.

The lights finally went off and the pandemonium of flashing bulbs and rushed interviews momentarily stops. The show, 45 minutes late, was about to start.

The music began with a thud and blinding beams of light. The ghetto glam models stomped down the runway in pillbox hats, opaque tights, and pony tails past their butts (thanks to some serious hair extensions).

Three songs later it was all over. By the time I was on the subway heading uptown, my red gift bag resting on my lap, I wondered once again, had I even been there at all? It went by so quickly, and rather uneventfully, that I could have just as easily watched the thing on the Style Network from my couch at home.

Life Lesson #5: No matter what the occasion I have to look forward to, I need to stop acting like that twelve year old Fame star wannabe, take a deep breath, and not get so damn excited. Because I tend to get way too wound up about stuff. And more often than not, my expectations leave me either a: disenchanted, b: completely forgetful of what happened, or c: a combination of said disappointment and amnesia. The dance steps are forgotten, the famous people are disappointingly small in real life, and my existence is deflated.

It usually winds up being the little stuff that makes me most excited anyway. Like office birthdays when we get to have icecream cake from Baskin Robbins. When I get a seat on the train in the morning. If a guy who isn't revolting buys me a drink. Lying on my couch and catching up on missed television shows. That people, is what it's all about.