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"  The minute I heard the rumor that the supremo designer, \u00FCber-philanthropist, megamogul, aviator-sunglassed Michael Kors was retiring from Project Runway to devote more time to fashion-challenged women in need, I knew, toot sweet, I&amp;#039;d be the first girl to clock time with him. As anyone who knows me (or doesn&amp;#039;t) will attest, I live in pajamas and am nothing if not a depthless well of need. Not just need\u2014need! Jules, my best friend in junior high: &amp;quot;Do you remember in home ec when you needed me to finish your caftan project? Only two seams, and you needed me.&amp;quot; Mikey, my (gay) best friend in college: &amp;quot;Remember needing me to give you a hickey to make George Sutherland jealous? I&amp;#039;m still in therapy.&amp;quot; Liesl, my (editor) best friend: &amp;quot;Holly, you needed to get your story in a week ago!&amp;quot; (She said that yesterday.) &amp;quot;I need it!&amp;quot; Sometimes Liesl can be a lit-tle needy too. And then there are the boyfriends I needed out of my life, who were happy to file restraining orders. Like Don. The first time I screwed up the courage to say, &amp;quot;I love you,&amp;quot; he replied, &amp;quot;Thank you,&amp;quot; and ran. (A sad, true story.) Who says people who need people are the luckiest people in the world? Barbra Streisand, who needs to rethink that theory but won&amp;#039;t, because of the royalties involved. But today I am the luckiest woman in the world. Having reviewed my need-filled application, Michael Kors picked moi to spend a &amp;quot;sporty, sexy, glam&amp;quot; day with him. And to commemorate our super-special time together, he created three perfumes\u2014Sporty, Sexy, Glam\u2014for me alone, and anyone who shops at Macy&amp;#039;s. Smelling sporty, I arrive at Bowlmor Lanes in New York City&amp;#039;s Times Square, where Kors, dressed as ever in black, hugs me; shows off his custom black bowling shoes\u2014&amp;quot;I can&amp;#039;t wear two-tone&amp;quot;; orders six sliders; and shouts, &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s bowl!&amp;quot; Lifting various balls, he reveals, &amp;quot;I have the largest fingers known to man.&amp;quot; Kors gutters a few, lets me get ahead, and the next thing I know\u2014crash! bang! boom!\u2014he&amp;#039;s striking me out of the game, dancing in the lane before his ball even sends the tenpins flying. The guy is a ringer. &amp;quot;I bowled as a kid, played a little tennis,&amp;quot; says Kors, sliding a slider into his mouth, before regaling me with details of his upbringing in Merrick, Long Island. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;d kill people at tetherball. I was a right fielder in baseball. I used to pray the ball wouldn&amp;#039;t come to me.&amp;quot; He laughs. &amp;quot;My mother played football! She showed up for open call at the Philadelphia Eagles to say, &amp;#039;Why can&amp;#039;t women play football too?&amp;#039; She was a feminist.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Michael, it&amp;#039;s 12:45,&amp;quot; announces Amy, his publicist. &amp;quot;It is,&amp;quot; his assistant Mary confirms. The designer jumps up: &amp;quot;On to our next assignation!&amp;quot; To quote Borat: &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s Sexy Time!&amp;quot; Kors takes a black SUV with Mary. I ride with Amy in another, spritzing Sexy like it&amp;#039;s going out of style. Three blocks later we&amp;#039;re at the famed Algonquin Hotel bar sitting at a round table, the ghost of Dorothy Parker hovering in the air, smoking a cigarette. &amp;quot;After over 30 years of designing clothes and accessories and fragrances, I kind of did some soul-searching and said, What&amp;#039;s the ethos of what I believe is in every woman?&amp;quot; Kors is telling me. &amp;quot;And the ethos of my design philosophy? Sporty, Sexy, Glam\u2014the mix of them is all very Michael Kors. This doesn&amp;#039;t answer every mood. God knows we could have fragrances called Quirky, Silly, Edgy!&amp;quot; Not to mention Needy, Whiney, Late. Menus arrive. &amp;quot;Sexy food is anything you can eat with your fingers,&amp;quot; Kors says. &amp;quot;Except caviar is sexy, and you can&amp;#039;t eat that with your fingers.&amp;quot;  Personally, I find the bread basket sexy. Kors hands it back to the waiter. &amp;quot;We don&amp;#039;t need bread, we&amp;#039;re just going to drink!&amp;quot; (I do need the bread. But I don&amp;#039;t want to come across as a bread eater.) &amp;quot;What are you having?&amp;quot; Kors asks me. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m having whatever you&amp;#039;re having.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m going to have an iced tea.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Me, too. And a dirty martini.&amp;quot; Dorothy gives me a thumbs-up. &amp;quot;Actually,&amp;quot; Kors says, &amp;quot;iced tea will be my chaser. I&amp;#039;ll have a Ketel One on the rocks\u2014I wear black, but I drink white.&amp;quot; Mary and Amy sheepishly join the Ketel call. Says Kors, &amp;quot;I hope they don&amp;#039;t think we&amp;#039;re anorexic when we don&amp;#039;t order food.&amp;quot; He cocks his ear. &amp;quot;Listen to what&amp;#039;s playing!&amp;quot; Frank Sinatra croons. &amp;quot;That&amp;#039;s the best line of the song: &amp;#039;It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls of independent means. We&amp;#039;d ride in limousines, their chauffeurs would drive, when I was 35.&amp;#039;\u2009&amp;quot; Kors sighs. &amp;quot;There&amp;#039;s nothing sexier than Sinatra in a heartbroken moment. I rented his house in Palm Springs where he and Ava Gardner had a fight and she threw a perfume bottle at him and it cracked the sink. And they left it cracked\u2014now that&amp;#039;s sexy. It&amp;#039;s a little Streetcar Named Desire, pure animal.&amp;quot; Tennessee Williams and Michael Kors\u2026if only straight men could see women so clearly. &amp;quot;Michael,&amp;quot; I say, Blanche DuBois\u2013desperate. &amp;quot;Is there an age at which a woman should not wear thong underwear?&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Noooo,&amp;quot; he replies. &amp;quot;No one wants to see a granny pant on someone who could be a granny. You can only wear a granny pant if you&amp;#039;re 20. But over 35?&amp;quot; He shakes a big finger. &amp;quot;In a strange way, in your twenties you can wear things that riff on &amp;#039;lady,&amp;#039; because it&amp;#039;s a little ironic. The mistake in your twenties is to think you have to dress like a teenager. In fact you want to try adult things because you&amp;#039;re going to have to give them up in your late thirties and wait until you&amp;#039;re over 60.&amp;quot; In your forties, Kors says, &amp;quot;Something&amp;#039;s always got to look a little undone. Mix a casual piece with something dressy. If it&amp;#039;s too lacquered and perfect, it&amp;#039;s very aging.&amp;quot; The burning question: when to retire the miniskirt? &amp;quot;If you&amp;#039;ve got the legs, you can pull it off at 70. But it&amp;#039;s tricky to wear a short, tight skirt and a high heel at any age. Sexy goes to trashy quick! And shoes you can&amp;#039;t walk in? Take &amp;#039;em off! No guy is turned on by watching a woman grab a handrail\u2014that&amp;#039;s not sexy.&amp;quot; The fix? Cool boots or flat shoes and, in my case, tights to hide the cellulite. &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t have to wear tights!&amp;quot; Kors says. &amp;quot;All you have to do is use Michael Kors self-tanner! A tan hides everything.&amp;quot; As if on cue, Sinatra sings &amp;quot;Nice &amp;#039;N&amp;#039; Easy.&amp;quot; Kors sings along, snapping a finger. &amp;quot;I know the words to everything, like, I&amp;#039;m Pandora for Sinatra. Press my head and I&amp;#039;m the Sinatra station!&amp;quot; Then he raises his glass: &amp;quot;Here&amp;#039;s to our next assignation!&amp;quot; I look in the mirror, mirror, on the wall at the Michael Kors store. The strapless, fitted black-lace illusion dress and matching bolero jacket is Ava Gardner glamorous. But me, being me, I have my needs. I go shop-hopping to fill them. I need to lose five pounds (thanks, Spanx!); I need big sexy hair (thank you, Big Sexy Hair products!); I need major lashes (graze, Benefit&amp;#039;s They&amp;#039;re Real! mascara); and siren red lips (mercy, Hourglass 14-hour liquid lipstick!). Hand on my heart, I vouch for them all. Amy picks me up and delivers me to the CFDA Awards\u2014the Oscars of fashion\u2014where I&amp;#039;m meeting Kors for our Glam-slam evening. There&amp;#039;s Jessica Chastain! Look, Kerry Washington! The Olsen twins! Rooney Mara! Sofia Vergara! Our next president, Hillary Clinton! And my new BFF, Michael Kors\u2026with supermodel Karolina Kurkova? Hey, I thought I was his arm candy. Seeing me, he smiles and walks over, the blond, high-heeled, silver-hot-panted Kurkova in tow. Kors kisses my cheek and introduces me to her navel. Karolina doesn&amp;#039;t need tights, or a tan, or a handrail, let alone a pair of $124 Spanx, which, truth be told, moved the five pounds from my rump up to my ribs, causing me to burst a stitch in my dress every time I inhale. I need a sewing kit. &amp;quot;Standing next to Karolina,&amp;quot; Kors whispers, &amp;quot;I look like her pygmy dwarf.&amp;quot; I&amp;#039;d argue with him, but the intake of oxygen required might make my dress pop off. I leave him in a blaze of paparazzi flashes to search for a needle and thread, and vodka to wet my whistle. And it&amp;#039;s a good thing, because whistle I did, and whoop and clap till my hands were blue. By the time the last award was awarded, I was so inspired that I went home to design something myself\u2014and I knew just the man to judge my talent!  I started Project My Way by ordering a sewing machine from Amazon. (I have not sewn since the seventh grade.) Liesl set the rules. The challenge? Create a bowling look. The budget? Thirty dollars. Time to create it? Six hours. I run to the Housing Works thrift store, where I buy an eggplant cashmere sweater and a red hooded sweatshirt with front pockets; then pop into Pins &amp;amp;amp; Needles for thread, elastic, and ribbon; eat lunch, watch TV, take a nap, walk my dog, decipher the Rosetta Stone, and walk in circles begging a muse to appear. Where&amp;#039;s Tim Gunn when you need him? Desperation being the inspiration for perspiration, I sweat bullets taking the scissors to the sweatshirt, cutting it straight across beneath the arms. Two hours later, the bottom half is a miniskirt with an elastic waistband; and the top half is a hooded scarf, which can be worn with the sleeves wrapped around my neck, or tied in front! My neighbor Boyd, a handsome Bruce Willis-on-steroids type, takes pictures of me sporting my unique look, and I send them to the publicist, Amy, who forwards them to Project My Way judge Kors. Ding! An e-mail! &amp;quot;I love the idea of the cool bowling skirt, but a pretty panty would be essential,&amp;quot; he says, adding, &amp;quot;Somehow the head wrap is a bit too &amp;#039;Little Red Bowling Hood&amp;#039; for my taste!&amp;quot; Maybe it was only sew-so. But I have a need\u2014a need to succeed. I stare at the cashmere sweater. Cashmere\u2014the one fabric that is sporty, sexy, and glam. That&amp;#039;s it! I can soak it in hot water, throw it in a dryer and make something luxe-looking that&amp;#039;s wash-and-wearable. &amp;quot;You don&amp;#039;t have enough material,&amp;quot; Boyd says, running out and back in, a moth-eaten camel cashmere pullover in hand. I&amp;#039;ll take it! A packet of Rit and a three-hour dye bath later, the beige blooms into deep rose. After washing and drying it all, I cut the arms off the eggplant sweater, position my favorite sleeveless knit top precisely over it, and trace around the knit with chalk, leaving an extra inch for seams, then cut. &amp;quot;Is that cheating?&amp;quot; asks Boyd, nervously, rubbing his balding head. Desperate times call for desperate measurements. Scaled down, I cut the trim off the eggplant sweater and switch it with the rose V-neck from Boyd&amp;#039;s sweater. He approves: &amp;quot;I love the contrast!&amp;quot; The bottom of Boyd&amp;#039;s sweater becomes a bubble miniskirt, and using a sleeve from the eggplant one, I make a drawstring belt and a front pocket shaped like a glove\u2014achieved by tracing Boyd&amp;#039;s hand. While the skirt&amp;#039;s a fun, flirty dream, the top is a little snug. I rip out the side seams, lop the sleeves off an old fuchsia cashmere tee, and sew them in as side panels. Gotta say, the pop of complementary color lightens and brightens the whole ensemble. Adding a little edge to the sporty elegance, I leave the armholes unfinished. The great thing about cut cashmere is that it doesn&amp;#039;t unravel. You wash it and it seals itself. Sublime. After a weekend of hard labor, I e-mail Amy the pictures. &amp;quot;This is so cute!&amp;quot; she replies. &amp;quot;But I&amp;#039;m sorry, Michael&amp;#039;s on vacation and will be unable to critique this. We&amp;#039;ve been really clear about the deadline\u2014we moved mountains to get that quote for you last week!&amp;quot; Their arms must be very, very sore. And those mountains must be like, &amp;quot;Where the hell are we?&amp;quot; Surely I could track him down. He loves sand. He told me so himself: &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ve walked every great beach in the world.&amp;quot; Then I remember! Kors said, &amp;quot;The best time in Venice is September. Go to the Lido\u2014you feel like you&amp;#039;re in a Visconti film. There&amp;#039;s something misty and gray and sexy\u2026. It&amp;#039;s Phantom of the Opera-ish.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No, no, and no,&amp;quot; Liesl says, exasperated. &amp;quot;We&amp;#039;re not sending you to Venice. You didn&amp;#039;t meet your deadline. No quarter.&amp;quot; What the hell does that mean? &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s a military term.&amp;quot; Liesl&amp;#039;s a little Napoleonic. Well, I might have lost the battle, but I won the war. It only took me three days to learn how to dye, pattern, sew, and create something totally new out of something someone else gave up on. I got my hands dirty in the best way\u2014it took courage to change an object&amp;#039;s color, shape, and meaning. I found a purpose in repurposing. Can I cry now? Wearing my new getup, I go down to get my mail. &amp;quot;Hold the elevator please!&amp;quot; a Zooey Deschanel-ish woman says. &amp;quot;Cute outfit.&amp;quot; As we travel down, I tell her the story. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;ll never wear it,&amp;quot; I say, stepping off. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s too young for me. And it represents a failure in time management.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Really? So many people who take classes at our center would love to wear that! They&amp;#039;re extremely crafty. Oh, sorry\u2014&amp;quot; she extends her hand\u2014&amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m Jordana Martin, I teach at the Textile Arts Centers in Manhattan and Brooklyn. We&amp;#039;re all about up-cycling, sustainable fashion, one-of-a-kind pieces. If you&amp;#039;re not going to wear it,&amp;quot; she adds, &amp;quot;we have a gala to benefit the Arts Center. We could auction it off!&amp;quot; Someone would buy it? &amp;quot;Absolutely!&amp;quot; And that&amp;#039;s how my need led someone to need me. It&amp;#039;s a cashmeracle. I get Jordana&amp;#039;s deets and promise to send it. In the elevator riding back up, I lapse into a daydream, picturing my creation on some Williamsburg hipster, or one of the girls in Girls. Lena Dunham would rock this look. What now? Back at home, I throw open my dresser drawers, a flutter in my stomach. Today is a good day to dye. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.elle.com/beauty/makeup-skin-care/tips/a12580/michael-kors-new-fragrances/>