SKINNY: Day 739 of NutriNation

      It’s nine on a Sunday morning when the limo driver drops me off at the studio. I’ve been told over and over by Gareth’s people that he’ll give me an hour. They say it in a hushed tone, like they’re telling me he’s going to be my bone marrow donor or something. It’s weird.

      Skinny Jeans no longer works at G Studios, but there’s a guy behind the desk who was probably cloned in the same facility. Because Lumbersexual is the next iteration of the hipster evolution, this new front-desk guardian has a long beard, cuffed jeans and work boots.

      “I’m—”

      “Cookie Vonn,” the guy says with a smile. “Gareth’s inside. He’s expecting you.”

      “Nice sweater,” I say as the door swings open.

      “Thanks” is his friendly response to my sarcasm. He picks a piece of lint off the chunky, red wool.

      Given that I’ve spent two years imagining what it would be like to pass through the maple door, the reality is a bit disappointing. There’s a small entryway that creates about three feet of space between a conference room and the main door. On the right, a narrow hallway lined with boxes of fabric, piles of gift bags and stacks of magazines disappears into darkness.

      An elfin face pops out of the conference room door. “Wow. You are pretty.”

      I fight off the urge to glance over my shoulder to confirm it’s me she’s referring to. I guess it’s nice to be complimented, but it doesn’t make me feel like I’m being taken seriously.

      The woman holds the door open and motions for me to take a seat at a walnut-colored table. It looks expensive. Probably from Herman Miller. “I’m Reese.”

      I shake her hand. Reese is my contact in Gareth’s office. We’ve been emailing back and forth for the past few weeks. She falls into a chair opposite me.

      “Okay, so I know that Mr. Miller’s time is limited. I have a list of the questions I think I can cover in less than an hour. And I printed out my measurements, in case that helps us stay on schedule.” I try to hand her the small card but she just smiles. “It will help Mr. Miller pull the right size dress for me to wear.”

      Gareth glides into the room and gives her a curt nod. Reese gets up and leaves, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

      “My time isn’t all that limited. I prefer to take my own measurements. And please don’t call me Mr. Miller.” He’s wearing his charming smile, weathered jeans and cowboy boots. His roughly raked dark hair shoots up to create an effortless pattern. The strands hover in the air, on the verge of falling.

      “Let me guess. Mr. Miller is your father?”

      “That’s right,” he agrees. “Stand up straight and hold out your arms.”

      I’ve been through the measurements thing a thousand times with my grandma and I know my digits by heart, but it seems like doing what he wants will save time. I’m surprised that the most uncomfortable moment is when he takes the waist measurement and not the bust. His hand rests for a second, very lightly, on my belly. Someone who wasn’t watching Gareth Miller’s every move probably wouldn’t have even noticed.

      The more my face heats up, the more in his element he seems to be. I glance at his biceps and quickly look away.

      He paces around me, making notes on a small sketchpad. “You’re blonde. But not exactly a winter.

      “It’s your eyes,” he decides. “They’re blue.”

      “Wow. They’re not wrong when they say how observant you are.”

      Gareth chuckles. “The gold flecks. They make all the difference. Let you carry off warm colors. They probably look green when you wear green.”

      He’s right. And I hate it.

      “All right,” he continues, snapping the pad shut. “I know what I’m gonna do.”

      He sits back down at the table and picks up the list of questions I typed up on my brand-new laptop. “Hmm. Yes. No. My grandmamma. At my ranch mostly. I hate the city. It doesn’t inspire me. There’s no such thing as a color philosophy. Color is mood. Season. Temperament. What’s the one thing a designer can’t live without? The right seamstresses and that is a matter of fact. I’ve never really thought about it, which frankly means it probably isn’t relevant at this point.”

      I’m scribbling frantically on my notepad. “Typically, in an interview, I get to actually ask the questions. Listen to the answers. Ask follow-up questions.” He doesn’t answer my question about why the largest size he manufactures is a size ten when the average American woman is between a twelve and fourteen.

      “And you’d describe interviewing someone like me as a typical part of your career up until now?” It’s sort of evil, the way he can insult me and still come across as charming. I know I’m in some kind of trouble because every time I breathe, I suck in icy air, feeling like I’ve swallowed a thousand mint Tic Tacs.

      “You’re very modest.” I’m struggling to feel as irritated as I make myself sound.

      “Modest? No. Hungry? Yes. I thought we might have a spot of late breakfast. You must be hungry since I made a point of telling them not to feed you at the hotel.”

      Truthfully, I didn’t bother asking anyone about breakfast. It’s a meal I’ve always done without. “It’s really charming the way you’re referring to me like I’m a bear in Jellystone Park. Don’t you have to get ready for your show?” I ask.

      He laughs again. “This isn’t Project Runway. We don’t run ’round like chickens with our heads cut off makin’ the clothes today. We did a full rehearsal last week. I’m in good shape.”

      Now I’m mad for real. I don’t know much, but I know fashion. I know how clothes are made and what designers do to prepare for a show. “I only meant that on a show day there must be a lot of demands on your time. I can’t be the only person wanting to interview you today.”

      “You’re