فصل 28

28

The episode I’d been asked to do was the season ten premiere. I learned that Pat Field, the incredible stylist from Sex and the City, would also be a guest judge, along with the regular judges Michael Kors and Nina Garcia, and of course host and supermodel Heidi Klum. Just picturing the company I’d be keeping already made me feel better-dressed. I got to borrow a Michael Kors dress for the shoot, and I had fancy people doing my hair and makeup. This was unusual for me then, but I dreamed that in my new more fashionable life I’d be calling a day like that “Tuesday.”

Because it was to be the first episode of the season, and an anniversary to boot, they set up a special runway in the middle of Times Square so that fans could be in the audience for a portion of the show. I was driven over to the location in a limo with Heidi, who was extremely friendly and welcoming. She waved from the open window and smiled for photos in the middle of Times Square. People were giddy to see her. Backstage, I met Tim Gunn, who was kind and gracious. “What a lovely way to start our season,” he said upon meeting me. I blushed from head to toe.

The judges were then seated in a row of chairs near the runway and handed index cards on which to write our comments. Heidi and Tim welcomed the audience and announced the start of the season. The crowd cheered. Loud music thumped through the outdoor speakers. The show began.

I guess what I remember most about the runway show was NOTHING I REMEMBER NOTHING OH GOD WHAT JUST HAPPENED. The show was over in what seemed like a blink. Prior to this night, my concept of a “show” involved popcorn or an intermission or perhaps complaints about the unnecessary length of that one scene in Act Two. This show was over before I even had time to become uncomfortable on my folding chair. Also (and this will come as a shock to absolutely no one) models make everything look great. I’d just watched a series of the most beautiful young women in the world walk by—who cared what they were wearing? Oh, supposedly me.

The other judges stood up and started musing about the show while, in a state of utter panic, I racked my brain for details, trying to come up with anything at all I could remember from the blur I’d just experienced. Um, okay, think, think. That one model was wearing…pants, I guess? Or were those actually pants? Or was it a skirt of some…no, pants, I think? These were my detailed fashion impressions. Then someone came to collect our index cards from us. I looked down at the cards in my hand and, heart pounding, realized I’d written almost nothing on them. “Wait, are we—these are their scores? We’re turning in the scores now?” I said to Nina, dumbstruck.

“Yes,” she said, totally friendly. “What did you think of the show?”

I grinned idiotically in a way I hoped looked haute couture, mumbled something like “Wow, it’s—with the clothes, making!” and turned back to my blank cards. Hastily I wrote down as much as I could remember from what I’d just seen and assigned some scores randomly. Even now, I couldn’t tell you what the scoring system is or even the range of numbers it involves. It’s like I had a fashion-induced blackout. Was it 1–10? Or 0–100? The giant X’s they use on America’s Got Talent? I have literally no idea.

Once back in the studio, I calmed down a little. It was exciting to be on a set I found so familiar after having watched every episode. The judges have all worked together for years, so there was lots of laughter and chitchat as we waited to begin. Then, one by one, the contestants filed out to stand on the stage beside the models wearing their garments.

The first thing I noticed was how close we were to the contestants. Almost uncomfortably close. Much closer than it looks on television. Yet still too far away to make small talk. Whatever the distance is that makes those two things simultaneously possible is one I’d never experienced before. The effect of this strange faraway intimacy meant that everyone just sort of stared at each other without saying much in between critiques. Plus, in order to get those swoopy camera angles, they put the camera on a swoopy mechanical arm thing, and we were warned that the swooping takes a while. So between critiques, the camera flew around on its arm like some sort of drunk helicopter, getting reaction shots from each contestant, and then from the judges. They asked us to hold our reactions as best we could until they got to us. Ever smile for a photograph for someone who doesn’t know how to work their camera? Twenty times longer than that. My mouth started to tremble from trying to hold a smile. During one of these awkward frozen moments, one of the contestants grinned at me and mouthed the words “I love you,” and I tried as best I could to communicate my thanks while also maintaining my frozen mannequin face.

Unfortunately, when it came time for the judges to give their critiques, this same girl turned out to be in the bottom three. This part is also a bit of a blur, but from my many years as a viewer I’ll guess Nina said something about a garment being reminiscent of “Dior in the seventies,” Michael said a textile looked like a “frat house bath mat,” and Heidi found one of the dresses “too sad.” When it came to me, I tried my best to come up with an opinion that was also not an opinion. I think I said something like “Maybe the T-shirt is a little too…T-shirty?” or something equally benign. But the girl who’d mouthed that she loved me looked as if I’d punched her, and that’s when I realized the real problem I’d been having all evening was simply that I didn’t like being a judge. I’d never judged anything in my life before. And even if I’d discovered I was an okay judge in general, even if I liked telling other people my opinions, the truth was that I wasn’t really very qualified in this particular arena. If anyone at the show had seen how many pairs of sweatpants I had at home, they’d have shown me the door. My favorite outfits are jumpsuits. I buy too many. They always just seem like such a good idea at the time. I’m probably drawn to them because they remind me of my favorite childhood pajamas, but without the built-in slippers. There’s one jumpsuit I wear that Peter calls my “that nice lady who works at the gas station” look. In fashion, I’ve always been more of a follower than a leader.

Here I’m copying not only my cousin Heather’s wardrobe but also her bedhead chic hairstyle and rockin’ smize. That’s what a smize is, right?