Free Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown by Adena Halpern Page B

fox stoles and tuxedo jackets.
    “I don’t think I have anything to wear,” I told him.
    “You just wear whatever,” he said, “This is L.A. It’s all about the comfort and none of that New York posing.”
    “So I can just wear jeans?” I asked him, thinking that I could pair it with a black ballet top.
    “Well, something a little nicer than that.”
    Adam had to go back to the big directors office to finish the day, and as he dropped me off, he said, “I’ll drop you off at the Beverly Center if you want to find something new. You’ll take a cab home.”
    So I did.
    As I strolled the faux marble floors of the Beverly Center mall, I noticed a very strange phenomenon. Every store had the exact same look. Cheap Lycra flowered dresses—granted, in different colors and different types of flowers—were displayed in shop windows. I thought they were all horrible. I hadn’t worn a flowered dress ... well, ever. In 1991. Los Angeles had nothing. No story, one look. There were very few Los Angeles designers, there was no Bloomingdale’s or Barneys like there are now. New York designers didn’t have stores there yet. There was Neiman Marcus and Fred Segal, but I couldn’t even afford to walk into those places. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself though. Maybe Lycra flower dresses were where fashion was going. After all, Adam had informed me a week before of all the firsts that Los Angeles created : “Barbecue chicken pizza, aerobics, EST, and the space shuttle.” Maybe they were on to something with these flowered dresses.
    “This is what I was talking about,” the voice said. “For your own good, go back to the airport!”
    I dispelled the voice and tried on a Betsey Johnson turquoise floral print. It wasn’t me, but obviously neither were my first inclinations of living in Los Angeles. I decided to give it a try and live the West Coast way.
    That was until I realized I’d left my wallet at home.
    I walked the three miles home in defeat. When I finally got back to our apartment, the left shoe of my six-inch platform was pus-soaked from the blister that had formed and popped on my big toe. I ransacked my suitcase for any kind of clue as to what to put on, and settled on a pair of black leggings with a black suede button-down vest over it. To me, it said chic. It might not have been the floral look, but screw ’em all. I was from New York ... by way of Philadelphia.
    If you’ve never been to a movie premiere that you have absolutely nothing to do with and you don’t know anyone else there, I’m telling you now: It sucks. Yes, you get all the free popcorn and all the soda your teeth could ever want to decay for, but truthfully, you will never hear a more silent sound than when you walk down the red carpet with your taller-than-tall olive-skinned boyfriend in matching wire-rim Ray-Ban sunglasses and absolutely no one wants anything to do with you. The spotlight goes out, the sounds of the clicking cameras stop. You almost think you see the throngs of photographers and reporters look at you, then look at one another and say, “They’re no one. Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”
    Still, Adam and I walked down the red carpet hand in hand with our heads held higher than high, me in my black on black, he in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt—this time with pictures of tropical settings and pineapples with the words OAHU and HONOLULU and KAUAI captioning the locales. Maybe they didn’t know us now, but how could they know if the picture may have been worth millions someday?
    As we entered the theater and took our assigned seats next to Sylvester Stallone and his then-girlfriend, now wife, Jennifer Flavin, I knew there was a reason I had forgotten my wallet. Jennifer Flavin was wearing my almost-bought turquoise flowered dress, and since I was sitting right next to her, the effect could have been devastating for both of us. I looked out into the crowd and saw an ocean of flowers and Lycra. I felt like Rudolph