Dancing with Tom Ford

“Oh, that’s who that was,” I said. “I think he was cruising me.” The editrix replied, “Oh, yeah, he was asking about you.”

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 didn’t have the casual access to the glitterati that most of my colleagues did. I’ll admit it: I wanted celebrity friends.

Pratt’s big party was my big chance. I decided I would dress in an eccentric, attention-getting fashion—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 didn’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. “Oh, _that’s_ who that was,” I said. “I think he was cruising me.” The editrix replied, “Oh, yeah, he was asking about you.”

For a split second, I believed her. Then she laughed. And I laughed, too. And went back to my desk.

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