Paulina Porizkova’s Musings from the Met

After sitting in a damp car waiting for an hour for our opportunity to exit, the red carpet stairs of the Metropolitan Museum were as welcome a sight as they were an intimidating one, lined with paparazzi and TV crews and bathed by flashes of lights as copious as the rain outside.

Rachel Weisz was on the stairs before my husband and I, and all cameras were turned on her. Behind me, a tiny, punk-inspired Selma Blair pulled up in her car. I think I may have been asked to step aside by the paparazzi so they could get a better shot of them, but I was so confused I smiled and waved at them instead. I clutched my husband’s hand. My peach Halston dress, which seemed like such a terrific choice in hot weather, was wet on the bottom, pulling the top sideways in a most awkward manner.

Once we finally reached the top of the stairs, we stood in another line: this one for the reception, where we got to shake hands with tiny, dry Anna Wintour, a healthy and ruddy Marc Jacobs, the always beautiful Kate Moss, and pale and sweet Justin Timberlake ...

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