I love fashion. Don’t ask me why, because I am hardly a fashionista and when you check out the fashion crowd it is clear, I don’t belong. Not that I really want to, because looking that great is a LOT of hard work. I know because I tried it for a while in the 80’s. Turns out that I am really not that great at it, although I still think I looked absolutely fabulous sauntering around NY city in a plaid Grandpa nightgown with a wide black, elastic belt, black leggings, Richelieu shoes, shoulder pads and a widow’s hat.

True fashion, not the silly things I threw together as a teen, is way out of my starving artist budget, and I can’t say I have the lifestyle to wear any of it if I ever did indulge. On the plus side, fashion has no fat and its calorie free, so as long as I am only looking, great fashion is a decadent treat I indulge in daily from time to time, just like chocolate!

And right now is prime time for a little indulgence. n case you haven’t heard, it’s fashion week in Paris. And if you don’t FB or Tweet, you couldn’t possibly know that I’ll be going to a fashion show next week. A real live, international fashion show for the designer Elie Saab. I am thrilled to itsy bitsy little pieces.

When I received the email telling me that I’d be an insider this year, well I was OVER THE MOON. What does a girl do when she is that thrilled? She tweets it, to tell the world. People tweeted back, “Whatchya wearing to the show?” “Aren’t you stressed about what to wear?” Zut! You’re killing my unabashed joy, here, people! I am usually pretty confident in fashion circles (I did learn something from the 80’s debacle); black top, black pants with a killer pair of CFM pumps, preferably in red or with some kind of metal attached et voilà! You’re good to go.

But this is Paris Fashion Week, even the French capitalize each noun, so all of a sudden, I was feeling intimidated. I decided to go check out what was happening at the shows.

Which is when my good friend Mary Kay from Out and About in Paris comes in. We met up after I’d already seen the scene at Guy Laroche and Belmain. She “just happened” to be at the Place Vendôme and I was heading to scope out the Barbara Bui crowd at the neighboring Westin.

“Let’s go in” Mary Kay suggested.

“What? Walk into the hotel? Just like that?”

“Yeah, I had no problems doing this last year at the Ritz when I saw Beyoncé.”

Ritz? Beyoncé? I am IN. And I was, everyone assuming we were just a couple of clueless American tourists or part of some buying team. We sat in the plush, cosy lobby, cameras discretely in their totes, waiting out the show. Suddenly the music stopped, the doors swung open and ZOOM, the two of us were bobbing up and down like two buoys at sea, with prime spots for shooting the fashion crowd as they left the show. Ab-FAb, I am telling you. I was so excited, I lost my voice.

I’ve noticed that the insiders leave the show with expressions of thoughtful contemplation, or frantically texting away on their iPhones. Not a lot of smiles to be seen, although mine was so daff looking I got a huge one for a stunning woman in fantastic glasss. This is BETTER than being a kid in a candy shop. Next year, MK, we’ll order champagne as we wait. The drinks are on me!!!