baby’s first fashion show

I attended The Hot Olympics

Hey, stranger.

At 8:16pm on Thursday night, I was on my way to an industry event in Salt Lake City. The organization was also hosting a runway later that week and having never been to a fashion show, I was giddy about going. I left the house wearing a pair of leopard print jeans, a deconstructed suit top, black heeled boots, and my beloved oversized leather jacket. There was a lot more lipstick on me than usual and my eyes were barely visible beneath the black eyeliner I had adorned them with. It felt, for all intents and purposes, like a very exciting moment. Now, I love clothes from a hobbyist perspective and although 90’s romcoms did their best to convince me a career in fashion would be fun, I never really considered it. The only reason I had been given a ticket to Thursday’s event was due to my involvement with a publication in the city, but I knew there wouldn’t be anyone there whom I knew personally.

The venue looked abandoned from the outside, save for the pulsing red light being emitted from a window on the 3rd floor. I walked along a darkened brick alley until, suddenly, I found myself illuminated by a sudden patch of bright light. There was a group of people clad in black clothing holding clipboards, flashlights, and wristbands standing in front of a doorway, the inside dark. They asked for my name, ID, and ticket and then, taking a breath, I stepped into the doorway. Or tried to. Just as I walked up, a group of people stumbled out, their faces covered in metal studs, black lipstick, and as I looked down, full leather garb that felt like a cross between cyberpunk and full goth. I suddenly felt like maybe leopard print was not the move. After stepping aside to let them pass, a man ushered me in front of a backdrop, the photographer absentmindedly saying “alright let’s get a photo of you” as she fiddled with her lens. I let out a nervous laugh and did my best to pretend I was not god awful at posing, ignoring the bead of sweat dripping down my back.

And then I was in. The event took place at a photo studio and each room had its own theme, complete with models posing on various surfaces, wearing clothes by the designers who would be presenting their collections at Saturday’s runway. Alone, I wandered from one room to the next, enjoying the obvious effort put into creating each set and put off, if only slightly, by the models’ unblinking stare as they posed. Am I supposed to take a photo of them or…? Eventually, later in the night, I spoke with a few models who confessed they weren’t really sure what they were supposed to be doing either. Interesting. The hours passed, I struck up conversation with a few strangers, drank a very watered down gin and tonic, and enjoyed the absolutely fantastic people watching.

There is an earlier version of this piece where lamented the superficiality I encountered, the way some people looked me up and down instead of shaking my hand, my irritation at watching people stand in a circle silently until breaking into hugs and kisses when a camera was focused on them, the lack of care in some people’s faces when I introduced myself, the Who Do You Know of it all. After all, Thursday night was the Hot Olympics on full display— a term I coined with Rachel one morning debrief, after a particularly weird night where I went out with a group of people who spent the whole night talking about how hot they were. Talking about it, posting about it, trying to see how much they could get away with because of it. Their attractiveness was the main event. Thus the Hot Olympics were born: environments that create a distinct feeling that everyone is competing to win a gold medal for being the hottest, coolest, people there. And look, I love hyping my friends up and I love feeling good about myself. But there is something unsettling about being in an environment where you get the sense that your personhood, the parts of you that are funny or kind or intelligent or nerdy, fall second place to your physical appearance.

There are Hot Olympics for every industry and every setting, I’ve come to learn. It’s snuck up on me during nights out to local bars and house parties and work lunches. Sometimes it comes out of nowhere in a setting I didn’t expect and I find myself hardening, white knuckling my purse, putting on an aloof exterior. The ideal that people are competing can oscillate between who’s the Hottest or who’s the Smartest or who’s the most Unique or Talented or Well Known. But it’s all irritating.

On Friday afternoon, I sat down to write about the night and was surprised to read my words back, my hatred for the Hot Olympics so unlike my usual tone. In a true I-Am-A-Mature-Adult move, I decided to sit on it and revisit the topic in a few days, after attending the runway show a few days later. And like I expected, on Saturday I spent the day wandering through downtown, shopping and people watching, and eventually found myself seated outside on a little French bistro chair, sipping matcha and enjoying the warm September weather. My mind inevitably drifted to Kurt Vonnegut’s story about his Uncle Alex, where he wrote:

One of the things [Uncle Alex] found objectionable about human beings was that they so rarely noticed it when they were happy. He himself did his best to acknowledge it when times were sweet. We could be drinking lemonade in the shade of an apple tree in the summertime, and Uncle Alex would interrupt the conversation to say, “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

So I hope that you will do the same for the rest of your lives. When things are going sweetly and peacefully, please pause a moment, and then say out loud, “If this isn’t nice, what is?”

Kurt Vonnegut Jr., A Man Without A Country

So I sat and read my book and realized that no one around me was competing with each other. No one in the days following the industry event had asked who I knew or what I did or if I was walking in the show. Because… it didn’t matter. Things were going sweetly for me, I had a good week at work and had fun plans with my friends later that evening and if this isn’t nice I don’t know what is? The insecure, envious snake in my insides was no match for a sunny Saturday afternoon and although I had felt all doom and gloom about the pervasiveness of the Hot Olympics, I remembered that my world is mostly good. Mostly good even when the rooms I had been in this past week felt shallow and surface level. My world is full of people who care for each other and listen closely when I tell them a story and who offer their hand when I need help.

Later that evening I went to the show in a black sequin and lace mini dress, took a few sips of a delicious apple cocktail, sat for 2 hours on a hard fold out chair, and focused on the collections in front of me. I did not let myself take it personally when I saw people scanning me from head to toe with a somewhat judgmental eyebrow raise. I did not bat an eye when I saw a group of friends stand silently until a camera was pointed at them and they fell into over the top displays of I’m having so much fun! I did not worry that I wasn’t qualified enough to be invited. The clothes were gorgeous and I was happy for the people who put in the hours of work to bring everything to life. Yes, some environments can be toxic and some people take themselves too seriously and sometimes I am jealous of people who are further ahead than I am. Most of my hatred for the Hot Olympics stems from my own fear that I won’t even make it to the podium, obviously. But working myself up about how shallow some people can be is not fair to them. It’s certainly doesn’t make me a better person. After all, bitching about people being self absorbed is still bitching.

So I’m writing this not as a smear campaign against the fashion industry, but instead as a reminder to myself that when I am 50 years old and have achieved far more than I have now, I’d like to make a point to be overly kind to the people standing alone in a crowded room and the people who are young and new to something and the girl watching everything with a delighted look on her face, who wants so desperately to find her way. This is a reminder for me to be present with who I’m with. To shake people’s hand or give them a hug and repeat their name back so I’m sure to remember it. This is a lesson that it can be easy to let your own green envy warp your perception of people into their most vile, but that’s so rarely reality. The Hot Olympics do exist and they take place far more frequently than anyone would wish, but no one ever wins. And certainly no one ever really cares who’s competing for gold except the people in the ring. It is a reminder, most of all, that clothes are fun but it is the person wearing them who is more important.

xoxo,

Evie

reception by @ehe.world

me by me

by @a.maisie.ing

oskar by lad