This past week has been shit. I was unceremoniously dumped via Facebook messenger on Thursday morning, my BPD went into free fall and I spent 3 days hysterical, delusional and unable to get out of bed. I've had worse weeks, but I've also certainly had better.
Luckily, I'm writing this drinking a double jack and ginger on my way to work my second consecutive fashion week, this time in Paris, so things are definitely improving.
Now, I hear you ask while I sip on my delightfully rewarding beverage, very much deserved after finding myself unexpectedly sans boyfriend mid last week, am I preparing myself for for the short but sweet flight fantasising about meeting a tall dark and handsome stranger with hair I could run my hands through for days? Fuck yes. But I'm also thinking of how far I've come.
What people don't understand about my job is that, in order to succeed, you really do have to start at the bottom. If I want to spend my future travelling, writing and absorbing all the delights a career in fashion has to offer, I need to pay my dues.
I spent February hand delivering invitations in the rain and freezing my tits off, handing out press releases to women who's shoes cost more than my car, and now I'm blogging in Gatwick airport, waiting to board a plain to Paris for the weekend to support my boss during the fashion week resort collection. Three months really can make the world of difference.
So to anyone has ever mansplained, mocked, pitied or judged me for the amount of hours I've spent working for free, I say fuck you. When your sat on your sofa in 30 years time hating the same job you've done day in, day out, for what feels like an eternity, I'll have the career of my dreams, in awe of how far I've progressed from being the shy 23 year old graduate who had only just decided what she wanted to do with her life. It's not luck, it's hard work and pure, unbreakable passion.
Au revoir
xXx
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