Dear Lynn Yaeger

Dear Ms. Yaeger,

What luck I had to run into
Ms. Yaeger on Govnah's Island

I am a longtime admirer of your words and your personal style, having followed the evolution of your voice in "Elements of Style" to its present freelance form. Your good-natured commentary never fails to feel like a relief from those fashion journalists who simply take themselves too seriously. Because yes, while fashion is an industry, a business, and one of the most viable mediums of creativity (and thus fodder for critique), one just has to believe that it's also supposed to be fun. 

I've long known that no one personifies this sense of playfulness like you, and have thoroughly enjoyed seeing the world of fashion through your verbal lens. Until now I've happily absorbed your articles over my morning toast or an afternoon tea, but after reading your recent contribution to New York Magazine, I felt compelled to write. Mostly because I, a straight, freckled redhead from Ohio (albeit with expatriate tendencies), found myself nodding and smiling and downright Identifying with the Lady Fag of your recent New York Mag column more than any other character ever in a fashion feature.

See, my one-weekend-a-month off from fashion's front line (Saks retail) serendipitously coincided with New York Fashion Week, so naturally I persuaded a fellow associate-freak to join me on the 8-hour after-work roadtrip to the tents, "just to see what we could see." In this, the day of streetstyle, it's hard not to subscribe to the Bruce via Yaeger philosophy that "in the halls of fashion, the only (real) fashion is in the halls." So at least in theory I would have been satisfied to be party to the style and energy and buzz outside of Lincoln Center last week. Secretly, though, I was determined to make it inside.

In brief, then, my friend and I donned a septem piercing and tutu, respectively, and made it to the last show of the day last Saturday. Dialogue over my fire-engine red toy camera transformed a Conde Nast photographer into an undercover operative/fairy godfather and we were shuffled into the lobby, and then into the show. As if my tale hadn't already diverged from Lady Fag's, far from stealing the golden real estate from the big wigs, we danced along and peeped the show from the back row. Sure, Ronson's no Wang, but I was beyond thrilled to enjoy her grungy parade of frocks.

I suppose I wanted to share my story as an offering of gratitude for speaking to and for a forgotten demographic in the fashion industry. And I thought I'd ask if, when I'm a few rungs higher in this crazy world, and living in New York, or Paris, I could invite you to tea.
 
Yours in style,
 
Moira