{"id":82654,"date":"2015-02-12T16:17:59","date_gmt":"2015-02-12T21:17:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=82654"},"modified":"2015-02-12T16:32:08","modified_gmt":"2015-02-12T21:32:08","slug":"en-vogue","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/02\/12\/en-vogue\/","title":{"rendered":"En Vogue"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"8851798930_0dabdcfd93_k\"<\/a>

Photo: Vetatur Fumare, via Flickr<\/p><\/div>\n

Late last night I posted a picture of myself to a social media account. Not the most flattering picture, and a particularly ridiculous one: I\u2019m standing in front of my bathroom mirror, phone clearly visible in my hand, and staring off at\u2014what? The shower curtain? The radiator?\u2014with a deliberately distracted air and the Flemish-Madonna mirror-face that my family has always mocked.\u00a0Why, I didn\u2019t see you there with the camera in your own hand!\u00a0<\/em>it seems to say.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I\u2019d taken this photo because I wanted to send a friend a picture of my garment: a mod, nubbly green tweed coat\u2014or maybe it\u2019s a dress\u2014from the early sixties, with a swing cut and two large pockets in the front. It zips up the back. The high neck chafes after a few minutes, and it takes all my flexibility to manage both the zipper and the buttoned half-belt (also in back). Ever since I bought the coat-dress in a California thrift shop, I\u2019d been saving it for just such an occasion:\u00a0a fashion event, where I needed something bizarre enough to make it look as though I know what I\u2019m about. <\/p>\n

Here is how I captioned the picture when I posted it online hours after having taken it: \u201cHAHAHA within thirty minutes you will get food poisoning and vomit off the side of the West Side Highway near the Hustler Club and you don\u2019t even know it!!\u201d<\/p>\n

All of which was true\u2014things went downhill very soon after I took that photo, though I had<\/em> been feeling a little off-color at the time. Already the memory of the lunch I\u2019d eaten (mystery meat, hummus, some sort of dubious sauce) was starting to sit uneasily. I decided to turn around en route to the event; I\u2019d thought taking a car might shorten the trip home. In the event, though, we hit very bad traffic, and with every start and stop my stomach began to rebel more. I asked if I could crack the window and leaned out into the cold. I tried lying down; I tried deep breaths. There is a terrible moment when you know you are going to throw up, when the acid starts to push against your throat and your heart begins to pound and the lights of a passing Dodge Intrepid flash by, and you smell the pi\u00f1a colada\u2013scented pine tree hanging from your driver\u2019s dashboard, and it is all too much.\u00a0<\/p>\n

First I threw up in my handbag. The justifiably alarmed driver pulled the car over to the side of the highway and I stumbled out and retched violently, my high heels crunching through the layer of icy snow. A part of me observed objectively that throwing up on ice is revolting in several ways I had never considered. I could see the logo of Larry Flynt\u2019s Hustler Club in the distance.\u00a0<\/p>\n

When the kind driver had taken me home and I had washed off my wallet and keys as best I could and crawled into bed, I pulled out my phone and sent an e-mail to my host and gave that driver as high a rating as is possible. Then I found an encouraging response from my friend saying she liked the fashion costume, and she hoped I\u2019d had fun. I felt a contempt for the old, cocky, vain me in the photograph; much like the small, corrupt part that scorns a naive former self after she has known infidelity. I could not get the coat off; I slept in it.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of <\/em>The Paris Review and the <\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Late last night I posted a picture of myself to a social media account. Not the most flattering picture, and a particularly ridiculous one: I\u2019m standing in front of my bathroom mirror, phone clearly visible in my hand, and staring off at\u2014what? The shower curtain? The radiator?\u2014with a deliberately distracted air and the Flemish-Madonna mirror-face […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":178,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13115],"tags":[17036,17033,2513,17034,538,6298,17035,17032,12707,12543,17031,17030],"class_list":["post-82654","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-our-daily-correspondent","tag-anecdotes","tag-barfing","tag-clothing","tag-embarrassment","tag-fashion","tag-fashion-week","tag-food-poisoning","tag-puking","tag-selfies","tag-social-media","tag-vomit","tag-west-side-highway"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nHow Not to Kick Off Your Fashion Week<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Sadie Stein tells the story of a night gone awry thanks to food poisoning.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/02\/12\/en-vogue\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"En Vogue by Sadie Stein\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"February 12, 2015 \u2013 Late last night I posted a picture of myself to a social media account. 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