A Day In Our Life

New York is said to be the city that never sleeps, and we take that quite literally. We average 5 hours on a good night, waking for an early morning run along the West Side Highway (and our daily dose of man candy). While running, we mentally sifting through our wardrobes to create the perfectly creative outfit that we know will be seen -and commented on- all day long.

Those outside of the fashion world take for granted that they can don a sensible knee length skirt and semi-coordinating top with a mid-heel and be on their way. We’re expected to be a walking mannequin of current trends: a perfect mirror of the brand. Our outfit planning takes serious brainpower & creativity (we rarely repeat an outfit per season), but that’s not even the half of it. We’re always dashing to the dermatologist (that skin isn’t going to peel itself!), manicurist (forestalling the horror of a chipped nail), or salon for our five-hour appointments (achieving the perfect blonde is a delicate art). We are held to such a high standard because we’re highly visible – we’re the first face that celebs and VIP’s see, as we represent very high-powered people. Everyone judges our appearance (Design swings by to check out our ensembles almost daily) and we hate to let them down.

We leave the 300-foot space we affectionately call home and strut down the streets while being verbally assaulted by construction workers, cabbies, trannies (only in the best neighborhoods) and God knows whom else as we head to the sweltering depths of the city’s Hades – also known as the subway. Deep underground, the homeless men and average perv’s eyeball the hem of our skirts. They stare with animalistic salivation to try and catch a glimpse of our breast in a gaping blouse or deep V as we attempt to sit without creating an unsightly wrinkle. There are moments when the male creature simply touches himself with a wink. Revolting. This is why we always enact the Triumvirate when dealing with the dredges of New York society: Sunglasses. iPod. Bitchface.

This mild form of torture comes to an end only to erupt into a sea of thousands, like a migration of cattle to the slaughter. Our two-avenue walk turns into an obstacle course of humans, cabs, potholes of steam, subway grates, coffee carts, and bike messengers. We stay focused on our iPod as our sunglasses act as a mental windshield... until the inevitable tourist stops to take a photo, or a jackass wearing kakis and a Blackberry holster cuts in front and stymies our strut.

Already tense enough to have a dirty martini and Xanex before 9:30am, we enter the sleek doors to our offices, nodding a hello to our fellow employees as we squeeze into the mirrored elevator. As we glide up to the top floors, we scroll through our Blackberry’s, steeling ourselves for what’s to come. We exit the elevator into an alternate universe of cream & gold. The morning starts with a roar, and by 2 pm we’ve likely solved several near-emergencies, learned (and kept) a juicy company secret, and maintained a perfect poker face through it all.

Our entire day belongs to the desires of others, and as long as they are happy, we are happy (or at least that smile is easier to fake). We prance around in four 1/2 inch heels trying to prove that we are perfect under the microscope for 10 hours with minimal food and zero downtime. Then we either have to squeeze in an hour at the gym or make a brief appearance at an event. Afterwards, we race home to restyle ourselves into an even more glamorous look and arrive 15 minutes late to our 9pm dinner, mostly consisting of cocktails (eating with models is never easy). We slip by the velvet rope and past the massive line to the hottest underground club. Hopping up on the couches, we dance with our table, who never allow our champagne glasses to empty. We mingle with those in our industry before limping out at 3 AM in our still-fabulous heels.

Our eyes glaze over through the windows of the cab, the city flashing by in a smear of lights and the cacophony of fellow revelers. We barely have a chance to remove our eye makeup before we stumble to bed… wincing as we set our alarms for another punishing night of four hours sleep.

But through the brain fog that only chronic sleep-deprivation can create, we know we're lucky to be living our life. We love our packed schedules and know that we wouldn't trade a minute of it. After all, we shudder to think what we may miss...

*aries* & *scorpio*