It all started because of my Marant jogging pants which have now become an international catastrophe. From Paris to New York, seven hours on Air France’s seat 456A stuck between two babies slobbering all over me, I still haven’t taken them off, and all my friends are saying I look cooler than cool and so I’m really never going to take them off.  I’m blissful in my comfort and the cool attitude that comes with ’em.  And what was my life goal?  Be cool, not a fool!

This was a miracle that I just needed to keep on giving, and then the most ingenious idea popped into my head one morning.  Without a second wasted, not at all awake yet, on the way to go get a coffee, I took a quick detour into AmApp where I found the perfect grey jogging pants, nice and tight.  Then I got back home in double time and right in front of the aghast faces of Scott and Tracy, I cut my new pants right straight across, just above the knee, no pomp and circumstance.

I cuffed ’em, and right away tossed on a pair of orange heels, a stripped t-shirt, a blazer and waited for my thunderous applause, arms up in the air with a V for victory.

30 seconds flat.  My coffee was still hot.

And then I was off to do my own parade of “I’m the greatest” : I went to the Alexander Wang resort show where Kate told me that I was supercuuute in my sweatpants, and I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that Alex had anticipated me doing this and copied me ahead of time.  A few days later, Tracy, who had asked beforehand for authorization to copy the idea in due form (I gave her the green light with pride), she arrived with what she was calling the G-sweatpants, a pair of heals and a checkered shirt.

This was too much: I was struck by the most furious lighting strike of pride.  The same way Gaultier must have felt when he saw his cone-shaped bras,  even if it was out there, for God’s sake, it worked!

I know.  In a few months, I’ll wonder what possessed me to wear these.  They’ll become part of my collection of pajamas to be ashamed of, the ones you only wear on Sundays to go get magazines you’re ashamed to be reading with a hairstyle sticking up every which way that you’re ashamed to have.  In the meantime, and already now, I beseech you, I give you all the green light to go out and copy.  And don’t just say “Merci,” noooon.  Say: Merci G!

Translation : Tim Sullivan