For a long time I’ve felt as if I needed to have a very big life—that I needed to have the best clothes and go to the best parties and get a better seat at Fashion Week than other people; that I needed to have a job like my father’s, one that has everyone stopping by our table at Le Cirque to pay homage even though I loathe the way people stop by our table. Standing here, I can almost believe it doesn’t matter— that whether I’ve got the best seat at Fashion Week or never attend again won’t make a difference to anyone in a hundred years and probably makes little difference to anyone now. My
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