Dancing with Tom Ford
â€œOh, thatâ€™s who that was,â€ I said. â€œI think he was cruising me.â€ The editrix replied, â€œOh, yeah, he was asking about you.â€
You might call this a Brush by Fame, or a Fame Whiff (as in completely missing the target).
In the late '90s, I had just moved to New York and started working at _Jane_ magazine. Jane Pratt, the editor, used to have a quasi-famous birthday-party bash (she may still, for all I know). Being a lowly copy editor, I didnâ€™t have the casual access to the glitterati that most of my colleagues did. Iâ€™ll admit it: I wanted celebrity friends.
Prattâ€™s big party was my big chance. I decided I would dress in an eccentric, attention-getting fashionâ€”in this case, a traditional Chinese chocolate brown silk suit from Shanghai Tang that my Dad had recently bought for me (he had bought himself a gray one).
The party was held at some small Middle Eastern club/restaurant with colorful canopies. Cameron Diaz and Michael Stipe and Tom Ford and a sprinkling of other celebs were there. But it was just like high school: all the popular kids hanging out together.
Stipe ignored me when I cruised him. Cameron barely turned around when I brushed her with my long silk sleeve at the bar. I did manage to dance _near_ Tom Ford, who I thought was cute but didnâ€™t actually recognize. I ended up leaving by midnight: I was shvitzing like crazy underneath all that heavy silk.
The next day, one of the fashion editors mentioned that Tom Ford had been at the party, and I suddenly realized whom I had been dancing near. â€œOh, _thatâ€™s_ who that was,â€ I said. â€œI think he was cruising me.â€ The editrix replied, â€œOh, yeah, he was asking about you.â€
For a split second, I believed her. Then she laughed. And I laughed, too. And went back to my desk.