Sunday morning: Five people arrive at my hotel room. One to coat my fingernails with death-proof acrylic, one to sand my hooves, one to make sure I get the dress on properly, one to prep my face for the merciless HD telecast, and one to make my self-cut, home-dyed hair look pretty. At one point, they’re all on me at once, assessing their respective sectors with identical furrowed brows. Then the dress comes on, and it’s slit so high you can see my utilitarian flesh-colored thong. Unfortunately, this is the Oscars and not a stripper convention. (I’ve been to both!) The stylist’s assistant begins stitching the slit while the makeup artist frantically sponges concealer onto my scraped knees and bruised calves. I am not merely flawed; I am one giant flaw that has manifested itself as an ambulatory being.
I have no doubt that other attenders and contenders have to endure much the same thing. However, I can’t imagine them telling the story quite this way; surely none of the red-carpet regulars would describe a dress, even a dress from Dior fercrissake, as “the Frock of Overexposure.”