I’ve strutted down runways in heels so high they defied physics. I’ve faced the existential crisis of a bad haircut. I’ve even braved the unforgiving fluorescent lighting of a department store fitting room. But the one thing that truly terrifies me? Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.
Skydiving. Free-falling. Hurtling toward Earth at speeds my skincare routine is NOT prepared for. The mere thought makes my designer-clad knees wobble. What would it take to get me to do it? Oh, just a mildly convincing bribe—perhaps a lifetime supply of La Mer, a front-row seat at Paris Fashion Week, or an ironclad guarantee that I’ll land like a graceful swan and not a malfunctioning marionette.
And let’s talk about the outfit. What does one even wear for such an occasion? A jumpsuit? Darling, unless it’s haute couture, I’m simply not interested. Wind-tossed hair? No, thank you—unless it’s giving effortless French girl chic and not just survived a tornado. And don’t get me started on the helmet. I know safety is important, but can someone at least bedazzle it? If I must plummet from the sky, I’d like to do so with a little razzle-dazzle.
Of course, my ultra-glam alter ego would tell me to embrace the moment, conquer my fears, and make gravity my personal runway. But my rational, well-moisturized self? She’s voting to keep both feet on the ground—preferably in Louboutins, where they belong.
#FearFactorButMakeItFashion #Voguegenics #SkydivingIsNotTheNewBlack
