Everyone agrees: Fashion Week is a busy time. No matter how cool, calm, and well-dressed you may seem on the outside, chances are you’re frazzled, overcaffeinated, sleep-deprived, and possibly a little bit hungover. Yes, there are much bigger problems in life than being exhausted from parties and fashion shows (teeny, tiny violins), but we’d all be lying if we said we weren’t stressed. At the end of the day, no matter how glamorous it can be, Fashion Week is work, with schedules and deadlines and places to be. And eventually, all that pressure permeates our subconscious and seeps into our dreams.
Indeed, all of us at the Cut have had Fashion Week stress dreams this week. Mine started over the weekend, when I dreamed I found an adorable puppy but couldn’t keep him because (1) he had a mysterious skin disease, possibly mange, and (2) I had to go to Fashion Week and couldn’t take care of him.
Then, last night, I dreamed that some girl told me there was a hidden camera set up in the Cut’s offices and people watched us via live stream, like a Panda Cam. She then accused me of doing drugs at work to stay awake, which I obviously denied. She insisted, “I watch you all the time, and you have fourteen prescriptions!” I was baffled and indignant, and woke up in a cold sweat.
Luckily, I’m not alone in my neuroses. Below, a roundup of Cut staffers’ Fashion Week stress dreams; make us feel saner by contributing your own in the comments.
Emily Shornick, photo editor
I dreamed I was shopping the sofa sale at Crate and Barrel on the first night of Fashion Week, and I fell asleep on a couch. When I “woke up” (in my dream), I was locked inside with a dozen other people — mostly strangers, but also two friends of mine who were there to exchange gifts from their wedding registry. The groom’s (fictional) grandmother was also present. We all sat around a charming, rustic dining table while I desperately tried to reach the office. I eventually escaped by climbing down through a cobwebbed, out-of-service dumbwaiter and hopping onto a white bicycle someone had neglected to chain up. But alas, I punctured a tire, and had to drag the bike to the nearest gas station and frantically begged for help. I drifted awake while a toothless woman cackled in my face.
Stella Bugbee, editorial director
In my latest stress dream (of many), I had a beautiful new Louis Vuitton bag, the one that Michelle Williams has in the ads, which I don’t own in real life. But then it was stolen at a show and I lost my phone, my wallet, my schedule, and my makeup. I was running around in tears, stopping people on the street to ask, “Have you seen who stole my bag?” Finally I sat on a wall and just sobbed.
Allison P. Davis, associate editor
I can’t remember what exactly led up to it, but I was sobbing because I couldn’t ID a lipstick color, and Stella comforted me like I was a toddler. I have been resisting the urge to call her “Mom” ever since.
Sally Holmes, producer
I dreamed I was sitting in a circle on the floor with about fifteen of my high-school classmates, plus Hilary Rhoda (because, sure?), and we were passing around a little bag with prizes in it. When it was my turn to pick a prize, I got a half-dollar coin. Of course, the person after me picked out a rare full-dollar coin, and I was disappointed. Then someone said, “I wonder who will get the Cartier gift certificate!” The group all got excited, because CARTIER! (But again … why?) I was determined to be the person who picked it. When the bag (which looked like what Jack would have kept his magic beans in, if you can picture that) came back around to me, I stuck my hand inside and picked what I knew was the gift card. It looked like an AMC movie-theater gift card, and the amount was $033.00 — 33 dollars, with a zero in front of the threes to rub it in. Anyway, Hilary Rhoda ended up getting something much better and I was PISSED.
Veronica Gledhill, market editor
I had a dream that Chloé was presenting a film instead of a runway show, which I was happy to see until I realized it was a two-hour-long, art-house Fellini-esque film or the kind by Ingmar Bergman, where nothing actually happens but everyone still looks great. So I was stuck watching models play a somber game of chess on the beach (wearing Chloé, of course), stressing about how much work I wasn’t getting done.