My sister and I were wandering around the city the other night when we spotted a woman staggering about in the mall. My sister, nursing student and good Samaritan that she is, went over to ask if the woman needed help, since she seemed completely normal other than the fact that she was having a hard time walking. After yelling at my sister to not touch her, she walked away and toward a store, where she leaned against the window. We stood there and watched, like typical dodos, and after a couple seconds someone came out of the store and started talking to the woman. And that was when I heard eleven words I never thought I’d hear:
“Hi, I’m Michael Kors, I’m the designer here. Are you okay?”
I laughed at first, because hello Mikey, I don’t think she cares who you are or what you do since she’s about to fall over. But then I kinda peed myself because…it was Michael Kors. Ten feet away from me. Talking to a woman who may or may not have had drugs in her system. Outside his store. Close to me. Breathing my air. Talking to a woman I had seen. Etc.
My sister and I walked away once we knew the woman would be okay, but once we were out of earshot I kind of tweaked out. “That was Michael Kors!! OH MY GOD.” Apparently my sister hadn’t heard him say his name, so she didn’t realize it was him, but I was pretty sure I recognized his face from the days when I was obsessed with Project Runway, so I Googled him on my phone (because I’m obviously not fashionable enough to recognize designers by their faces, but definitely fashionable enough to wear chinchila. Or wait, no, I meant clothes).
And then she said these fateful words: “Should we go back? I can tell him I can’t afford his stuff, but I do like his line Michael by Michael Kors.” And then I snorted, like the amazing fashionista I am not. Because hello, anyone who is anyone and knows anything knows that she was mistaking him for Marc Jacobs, as in Marc by Marc Jacobs. I am so much better than you. Listen to me, for I am amazing. (Edit: I later found out that there is a Michael by Michael Kors, further solidifying that I am not a fashionista and am just a giant blockhead.)
Needless to say, we went back. Back to his store, holding a box of cupcakes we’d just bought. Marched right in there, risking the safety of countless leather purses and shoes, because frosting can cause nasty spotting in leather…I think. Past watches more expensive than my kidneys, pretending to browse while all the while internally screeching “MICHAEL KORS!!”
He spotted our cupcakes and said, “Those are for me, right?” So basically, Michael Kors initiated a conversation with me. Or my sister. Or our box of cupcakes. Either way, I’m never washing this hand again…um…
Basically, all this tripe and writing and storytelling and ridiculousness and…anyway, its all led up to this: my sister and I had a ten minute (count ’em, ten) long conversation with Michael Kors in which he ogled our cupcakes (and I do mean cupcakes, you freaks), told us he’d had them before, and I insulted his weight. It was an accident. I swear. I don’t want to talk about it. But it did result in him saying, “Bless your heart” after I apologized profusely.
Also, he’s shorter than I imagined. And nicer.
So…real quick, can I have a total freak out? Okay. I MET MICHAEL KORS AND NOW THE DEGREE OF SEPARATION BETWEEN ME, HEIDI KLUM, NINA GARCIA, TIM GUNN, AND A WHOLE BUNCH OF SUPER SKINNY MODELS IS ONE. ONE DEGREE. ONE DEGREE OF SEPARATION.
Sorry about that. I guess the fame is getting to me. But don’t worry…someday…you’ll all be as famous as I am. It’s okay. Don’t feel bad about yourselves.
Moral of the story: help staggering women in the mall and you will automatically meet someone famous. God bless you, staggering woman. I don’t want y’all to think I forgot about her or her troubles, so I should mention that I saw her the next day at that very same mall and she was staggering less. So that’s good, right? Right.
And that is the story of Michael and the Cupcakes. Sweet dreams, children.