Single in the City: Fashionably Single

Still Fashionably Single

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Fashion week is that glamorous time of the year, when New York’s finest come out and celebrate fashion. In New York, Fashion Night Out, the precursor to fashion week, is the one night where boutiques and fashion forward stores stay open late, offering discounts, along with champagne to their favorite customers. This year, I scored two invitations. The first to my favorite soho boutique and the second, (and more coveted), to a private upscale party, celebrating I-ELLA, a high end online boutique store. It was a no brainer, I-ELLA was the invitation I honored.  Why? I figured there would be a more interesting mix of people (i.e. guys) than a bunch of over the top women, musing over a shade of “peach”.

And so I arrived at a brand new penthouse in mid-town Manhattan. I have in recent months been experimenting with the whole red dress thing. So I wore a razor-sharp, pencil thin red dress, paired with a generous helping of gold jewelry, flowing down my décolleté. The party itself was shee-shee, models walking around in vintage Escada, guest sipping on champagne and munching on duck pate. There was even a photo shoot for guests. I meandered through the crowd, seeing a few familiar faces. Just as I was about to give up, a friend introduced me to a clean looking brother, call him Dave.

After exchanging pleasantries, we realized we had a few friends in common. I wasn’t at all thrilled. Ladies, don’t you just feel like sometimes you need a new beginning? I’m tired of meeting friends-of- friends, and that whole thing about 6-degrees of separation ought to be revisited. It feels more like 1-degree in NY…everybody knows everybody. Argh!! Dave and I chatted briefly; I must confess I was a little aloof. Maybe because the whole friend-of-a-friend thing was playing in my head. Anyway, before parting ways, he gave me his card and asked to stay in touch. I managed as cheerful a smile as I could muster, before sashaying off, knowing full well he was checking out my derrière. I’m just saying. I never called Dave.

Fast forward one week later to fashion week. That time of the year when the glitterati descend on New York for one week of fashion debauchery. When I attend fashion focus events, I decidedly go with an understated chic look. There is no point trying to outdo anyone, you are your biggest competition. With this viewpoint, I piled my braids head-on high, with a generously large black bow decadently perched to the side. I wore a simple micro mini blue dress, paired with lollypop-red shoes. Make up was simple (nude eyes, baby-pink lip-gloss), earrings understated glam – diamond studs. Just what you would not expect, but alarmingly catching. In a sea of exuberant jewelry and overdone clothing, simple is the statement du jour. I arrived at the Lincoln Center as a guest of noted UK-based designer Tsemaye Binitie.  His collection was swank, received with a rousing applauds, I being one of the front row guests leading the charge.

Somewhere in the mix of the evening, I glanced across to the left aisle, and saw the silhouette of a gentleman I did not recognize, but saw enough to think “cute”. At the end of the evening, the lights came on, once again my eyes drifted to the left aisle and who do I see? Dave! Get out. I’m telling you we are down to zero degrees of separation in New York! Our eyes met with even recognition, and as I started to come out of my seat, he approached me with a flash of his smile. And so we began a light hearted, somewhat flirty discussion, all the while appreciating a spring/summer 2012 collection, aptly dubbed S/S 12, and reminiscing on our meeting a week earlier at Fashion Night Out.

Unlike our first meeting, this time, I did give Dave my number. Dave closed the evening with a sprinkle of complements on my hair and dress. I was tickled. I invited him to join me the next day at my home, at a brunch celebration in honor of my designer friend. I was hopeful; even foolish enough to think we made a connection. Wrong! Dave never showed up or called to cancel – Rude. Instead, he has disappeared into the fleeting streets of New York. Perhaps I’ll see him again, that is if you believe in zero degrees of separation, but more likely I won’t. So here I am, fashionably single, and fashionably alone in my New York City upper west side apartment. But don’t feel sorry for me, at least not yet. I have a date on Sunday with Cringe! You may feel sorry for me afterwards.  Stay tuned. And if you are wondering about “Cringe”, read my blog post on dates that make you “cringe”  to get caught up.