SBIFFy Stylin’

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It’s right up there on the list of injustices committed in contemporary American society: More often than not, the togs starlets wear while strutting the red carpet don’t belong to them. Yes, the precious few who actually could afford such frocks don’t have to shell out a dime — as far as the designer’s concerned, the red carpet is the ultimate runway, and their clothes getting a ride down that catwalk on the backs of the rich and the fabulous is payment enough.

Must be nice.

But what about the rest of us? The poor, working no-names of the world who, like the paparazzi-baiting boldface set, are professionally obligated to attend glamorous affairs, yet are expected to (gasp!) dress ourselves. What are we to do?

The unjustness of this enigma comes into sharp relief during this time of year, when the S.B. International Film Festival hosts 11 nights of events. Events I — and many others — must work. Yes, I am fortunate, and no, I’m not complaining. And I know the ladies of the SBIFF love their jobs as much as I love mine. But with so much fabulousness going on, who’s got time to shop?

This is where LF comes in. The shop’s manager, Nicole Kowalchuk, happily offered to deck out several SBIFFers for the red carpet evenings, even springing for hair and makeup styling. The only expectation, she said, “is that [the clothes] are returned in their original condition.” Warm fuzzies all around.

So warm and fuzzy, in fact, that while we were chatting, Kowalchuk extended the offer to me — the very thing I’d always dreamed about. And yet, I hesitated. Because what Kowalchuk couldn’t have known was I was interviewing her from home. And I was home because, while jogging the day before, I’d taken such a nasty spill that my wounds made getting dressed unbearable. Worse, I couldn’t blame the spill on untied shoelaces, a cumbersome dog-leash, or a crack in the sidewalk. It just happened. Further, such spills are not rare. Nor is splashing drinks, dropping food, falling off my shoes, or crashing my car, for that matter.

And so, I turned down Kowalchuk’s offer. I may be a klutz, but I’m no fool. A klutz who has to figure out what the hell she’s going to wear tonight.

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