Before I tell you what I’m doing tonight, I need you to promise you won’t hate on me. I need you to say, “Mike, we realize your job forces you to work on weekends and quite often requires you to attend elaborate events that sometimes you would rather not have to.” I want to hear you say, “No, really! We understand you are a simple man who craves a simple life, but for the enjoyment of your loyal readers, you put yourself in difficult situations so that we can be entertained while sitting on the toilet or waiting for our clothes to dry at the laundromat.” Say it. Again! PINKY SWEAR IT !
Okay. Tonight I’m attending a high-end lingerie fashion show. Did I mention I’m sitting in the front row? Yeah, I know. I love you too. You’re welcome. So, how the hell did I manage to pull this one off? Well, when I’m not parading around town dressed like a drunken hotdog or writing about shaving my ... um ... hotdog, you can usually find me working on one of the fashion shoots you see in this magazine. So from the outside looking in, it probably seems like this sort of night would be old hat for me. You might think I do this kind of thing all the time, and because I’m a professional I’m able to appreciate the event’s cultural relevance, its elegant simplicity, its impact on Boston’s increasingly respected fashion scene. Um, yeah — cultural simplicity ... elegant impact ... professional whatever I just said. Did I mention front row? Boobs and bums, folks; it’s all about boobs and bums.
After a few pre-panty cocktails and some mindless party chatter, I take my assigned seat (which happens to be located between two of Boston’s most well-respected fashion editors) by the runway. I feel like the fat kid who no longer fits at the kids’ table so he has to sit with the adults: the conversation going on around me is way above my head, and every time I try to grab one of the tasty treats in front of me, I get my hand slapped.
As the models parade themselves and what little clothing they have on up and down the catwalk, the attractive and put-together editor to my left leans over and quietly asks if I find the shoes the women are wearing to be a bit jarring — maybe slightly out of line with the overall look of the show? I think about her question, review the last few looks in my head, consult my extensive notes, and finally reply, “They have feet?”
Realizing my brilliant shoe commentary has left me as exposed as the models in front of me, I decide to stop pretending that I’m a regular at these kinds of events and just enjoy the show. I have to say, I’m really proud of these girls. What they’re doing tonight takes guts: a brightly-lit room, 100- yard runway, and 400 of Boston’s most judgmental people make for a tough stroll in your knickers. Hell, when I climb out of bed after a successful evening with a lady friend, it’s all I can do to hide my ridiculously flat ass. If I had to hang back-crack in front of a sea of reporters while some dude spun techno music, I’m certain I’d be in therapy for years.
The night comes to an end and, with the exception of one little incident (come on now, that wasn’t my fault. Nobody told me that tucking a $5 bill in one of the girl’s thongs would be considered rude. I actually thought I was being quite complimentary), I was well-behaved. I hope next year I get invited back. Not because I want to look at beautiful women in their underwear, and not because I have a burning desire to stay on top of the latest trends in lace. Because you, my readers, demand it. Remember, I do this for you, not me. And because I love you guys so much, next Saturday I’m planning to eat chocolate-chip cookies out of Jennifer Aniston’s belly button while hanging out in the grotto at the Playboy mansion. I just hope they don’t make me stay out too late. I have work to do.
Michael Diskin can be reached at mdiskin@stuffatnight.com.
