The Fashionista Files Read Online Free PDF

our connection consisted of meeting once, writing incessant e-mails (often about fashion), and making a whole bunch of canceled plans. Upon first sight, I was smitten. A fresh breath of fashionista air was cast upon the dingy streets as Mel, a vision in midcalf, thong-toed Burberry high-heeled leather boots, emerged from a sullen yellow taxi. Three passersby stopped dead in their tracks to compliment her foot gear. And she modestly thanked them, adding that they were from last season and she had never actually worn them before.
    She confessed that she christened the shoes for her night out with me. I was truly touched. Especially because I busted out my ridiculous Imitation of Christ eyelet top with prairie collar, worn untucked and cinched at the waist with a black leather braided fringe Bruce belt just for her! Fashionistas tend to express their love by dressing for one another. Before we made our way into the glazed doors of the Chanel store on Spring Street, we took a moment to ogle each other’s styles. “A Marc Jacobs driving cap? Love!” “That Martine Sitbon ruched top? Hot!” I grabbed her arm as we marched onward and thought,
She’s the one!
    At Chanel, we admired the same shoes, double air-kissed our way through the crowd, and played the “If you could have whatever you want in the store, what would it be” game while Rene, a good-looking DJ who typically does Tom Ford’s and Diane von Furstenberg’s runway shows, mixed up groovy down-tempo beats. After we had our fill (time it takes to really enjoy a fashion party: about ten minutes), we sashayed to the restaurant, showing up a cool fifteen minutes late for our reservation. And it was at our very glamorous dinner when we came up with the idea for this book. But the moment was so much bigger than that.
    It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship, the kind of connection that can never be jeopardized by silly disagreements and cranky outbursts. We clicked on so many levels, talking about everything from losing our virginity, family upbringings, and our mutual affinity for science fiction, to outrageous hats, new restaurants, pop art, and repeats of television shows we both watched in high school (
Quantum Leap
). I appreciated everything about her— her wry and quirky sense of humor, her biting wit, her slightly repressed nature (she blames that on her religious background), the way she laughs and inhales instead of exhales, and, of course, her crazy shoes (I had coveted them when they came out and was on the waiting list. . . . Sadly, I never heard from the Burberry salesgirl about my acceptance, much like the admissions board of a university).
    Leaving the fashion scene (we had numerous editor—and Chanel bag—sightings), I noticed something quite peculiar. Melissa was walking funny—and rather slowly. I knew it couldn’t have been the wine. She had only one glass. I couldn’t remember if she had this awkward walk—toe-heel, toe-heel instead of heel-toe, heel-toe—earlier. Her feet probably hurt, I thought, a typical (and overlookable) side effect of great shoes. Blisters. It happens all the time.
    The following week bred another fabulous dinner. And again Mel had that odd walk. Toe-heel, toe-heel, toe-heel. She had the pace of an elderly woman with a hip problem and a walker. And her body was pitched forward ever so slightly. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I asked her if she was okay. I wasn’t sure if she was limping. “Shoes,” she said, “I can’t walk in heels.” I explained that she should go heel-toe, heel-toe, and she shrugged her shoulders. “I know, I know. But I can’t.”
    Such a defeatist attitude, I told her. “Of course you can! Try.” We had a little lesson up Hudson Street in the West Village and lo and behold, Melissa was completely incapable of walking heel-toe, heel-toe when she wore a shoe with a heel that measured over two inches in height. And she has over a hundred pairs of stilettos! Such obstacles and risks