I’ve had my fair share of (shoe) interviews in the past so am quite used to chatting about my babies.
Like the TV-show (cameras, cables and assistants everywhere) in Vienna where I sat (stiff as a board) in my shift skirt, Dolce’s and silky bow tied blouse, while “Best Ex” protectively checked the questions that would be asked (you never know TV). The director later told me that he was actually afraid that BE would bite him if he wasn’t very careful with everything (I can only say that I would most likely have bitten him too if something had gone wrong, I was that tense).
Or the interview I did for the Dutch Elle last year, where I surprised the two ladies who had come to interview me with champagne.
In my anxious state, I practically drank the whole bottle myself and ended up dancing to bad rock (it was early afternoon. In my defense though: I hadn’t had a bite to eat due to excitement).
Nervous? Me? Never!
So why the hell do I find myself locked in the bathroom of today’s interview location talking to myself: “Breath in. Breath out”?
Wonder if Geraldine (the super nice lady doing the interview) will accept “ooooooohm” as an answer to most of her questions.
P.S.: Today’s shoes are Creamy Moda