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"  The one thing that&amp;#039;s consistently defined my life is the one thing you&amp;#039;re truly not allowed to say \u2014 or even really exude \u2014 at Fashion Week, which is I Am Not Cool. However, since I&amp;#039;ve started writing for Cosmopolitan.com, I have had the benefit of being propped up on all sides by people who Are Officially Cool, because it is basically part of their job description: Specifically, beauty editor Carly Cardellino, fashion editor Charles Manning, and editrix-in-chief Amy Odell. For those of you unaware of street style culture, basically, a bunch of photographers wait around Lincoln Center to take photos of extremely high-fashion attendees who pretend to be waiting around so their photos can be taken. It has always been an embarassing dream of mine to end up on a street style blog, and I couldn&amp;#039;t do it without my co-workers&amp;#039; help. And so, like an awkward jockey climbing on the back of an all-black-clothed, bored-looking horse, they dressed me like a photo-ready celebrity and got me into an exclusive Fashion Week show. (Also: Close proximity to Anna Kendrick and expensive hors d&amp;#039;oeuvres.)   I told Charles that he was allowed to put me in anything he thought would get street style snapped, even though I was concerned that I might end up in one of those crazy geometric-shoulder half-art-half-clothes getups and people would be giving me the &amp;quot;Honey, you CANNOT pull that off&amp;quot; side-eye. We had to find a gracious designer who would be kind enough to lend out a gorgeous head-to-toe look to a large, unkempt ferret. Luckily, Charles had one in mind \u2014 Rebecca Minkoff \u2014 and her clothes were just the right combination of &amp;quot;wearable for humans&amp;quot; and &amp;quot;wearable if you are a perfectly-symmetrical-faced wood nymph who has Saltines for dinner.&amp;quot;   We went to the Rebecca Minkoff showroom, which looked like a normal store except very white, two days before the runway show. Along with fashion editor Charles, two very helpful publicists assisted in turning me into a high-fashion Cinderella. They tried a variety of mix and match outfits, some of which we&amp;#039;d chosen before from the website and they had laid out for us. (They call that &amp;quot;pulling,&amp;quot; as in, &amp;quot;We pulled these 10 pieces and 5 pairs of shoes for whatever-the-fuck-her-name-is from Cosmo.com.&amp;quot;)  i&amp;gt;Jesus/Charles, take the wheel.  I wasn&amp;#039;t crazy about this first one, even though I liked the skirt a lot. It was cute, but nothing even slightly close to what I&amp;#039;d wear IRL. Fun fact: A calculated move for would-be street style photographer subjects is to drape your jacket over your shoulders like you would with a preppy sweater in the 1980s. Nobody in the history of human beings has done this recreationally.   Charles said this was an interesting silhouette. I thought I looked like Ursula the Sea Witch. On the day of the show, Carly did my eyes and hair so that I looked like a woman who doesn&amp;#039;t eat dairy and knows what she wants. The outfit we&amp;#039;d chosen fit me well, was gorgeous and fun, felt like me, and made me feel like a grown-up. There was still snow on the ground as we rolled up to Lincoln Center, which I assumed would make my sandals look absurd. Apparently, though, the less weather-appropriate, the better.   110 percent focused on not falling on my ass. I was advised to stand outside Lincoln Center, look bored, and stare at my phone. Other women around me were doing similar things, but I felt ridiculous, because I don&amp;#039;t wear jumpsuits, because I am a Muggle.   I was freezing my balls off, but I champed it out. Everyone looked very elegant, although certain people (like me) were bordering on the sartorially doofy side, clearly angling to have their photos taken too. Amy gave me her two fur cuffs.  &amp;quot;Fur is a whole thing now,&amp;quot; she said. Sure enough, a few shots more photographers immediately swooped in to ask me to pose.  And then Amy gave me her matching fur hat. This was too humiliating, even for the experiment. I had hit my threshold and was finally ready to say no. It was just like that part in The Devil Wears Prada where Anne Hathaway is finally fed up enough to throw her phone in the fountain and go have stoned sex with Adrian Grenier on a giant grilled cheese sandwich.  Except it was nothing like that part, because I sucked it up, and thanks to that additional element of fur, a swarm of photogs (that&amp;#039;s an &amp;quot;INSIDERS&amp;quot; term for &amp;quot;PHOTOGRAPHERS&amp;quot;) appeared out of nowhere.  Accessories from Amy Odell&amp;#039;s House Of Fur not pictured because I want to get laid at some point in the future. I felt incredibly glamorous and stupendously lame at the same time. But maybe that&amp;#039;s because I&amp;#039;m not delusional. I bet that girl standing right near me in a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and cornrows just felt straight-up glamorous.   We were herded into the show and I was seated a few rows back from the front.   Here I am typing &amp;quot;fart&amp;quot; over and over into my Notes app. Nobody really seemed to notice that I was wearing head-to-toe Rebecca Minkoff. There wasn&amp;#039;t a lot of color. Everyone was mostly in black or grey or white. And fur. Also in attendance were Coco Rocha, Anna Kendrick, Carrie Underwood, Zosia Mamet, and about 200 women wrapped in Zara and disdain. The show was amazing. I coveted all of the clothes, especially these:    What else? Oh. If you have to go to the bathroom at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, you have to go in a weird, freezing back tent-room that contains rows of disgusting Porta-Potties, which feels incongruous with the glamour of the actual event. Or maybe none of these people ever need to pee \u2014 they just expel a bit of glitter from their ear and continue to look blas\u00E9. (Also: Have you ever tried to pee in a Porta-Potty in a really beautiful loaned jumpsuit? I could join Cirque du Soleil now.)   Via StyleList. Mission accomplished. Coolness achieved. In conclusion, I am happily back in my North Face and winter boots, but I will never forget the fleeting moment that overcame my reputation as a professional dick-joke-maker and became A Fashion Somebody. Follow Anna on Twitter.   Photo Credit: 20th Century Fox "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.cosmopolitan.com/politics/news/a20207/fake-celebrity-street-style/>