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By Root 491 0

since I was newly pregnant and prone to fatigue, my goal in the first few challenges was to keep my head low, design quick, execute quicker, and take a nap while the other designers were fussing over how to properly drape their fabrics. Of all my six pregnancies, this was turning out to be the easiest, and I was determined not to whine or complain about any of my symptoms. I don’t get morning sickness, but I do get bone tired, so any bit of sleep I could grab I went for it. This, unfortunately, led to endless footage of me sacked out like a princess. It’s not exactly a great way to make friends with a dozen or so people who already want you to go home so they can move up. Luckily, I didn’t care a bit what other people thought, and if my ability to get the work done fast made them nervous, so much the better.

The days were long. Work invariably finished at midnight, and then we were woken up at six thirty by a camera in the face and the entire day would start all over again. I exacted a modicum of revenge by sleeping naked and throwing off my covers in the morning just to torture the cameramen.

Elimination days between the challenges were a bit easier physically, but much more draining emotionally. The fifteen-minute runway and judging segment would take the full day to shoot, during which time no one had a clue whether they would be getting das boot or not. There was generally a mad dash to finish the garments before it was time to dress the models; then the waiting began. Naturally, there was a camera catching every expression as we all internally freaked out about what might happen on the runway. The minute the elimination segment ended, the next challenge was announced and the gerbil wheel started squeaking all over again. This cycle repeated about a dozen times in a six-week span, and added to it was the minor detail that I was increasingly pregnant.

EVERY TIME HEIDI STOOD ON THE RUNWAY AND INTRODUCED A “SPECIAL guest,” I would say to myself, “Please, let it be Peter. Please, let it be Peter.” Was I thinking that there was going to be a “Fashion Inspired by Architecture” challenge and Peter was going to be the guest judge? I was too tired to be rational. For the “Every Woman” challenge Heidi announced that there would be special guests and just as I was saying to myself, “Please, let it be Peter,” my mom appeared. I burst into tears. I’m not sure whether I was happy to see my mother or sad not to see Peter, or just being a hormonal, sewing freak of nature, but there she was, along with a mother or sister for every designer on the show.

I would have to say that conceptually this was the worst challenge of the entire season. None of these everyday women knew that they had come to New York to walk on the runway in “designer fashions.” They were told that they would be doing interviews about us, sharing stories of how wacky we were as children, and showing pictures of us butt naked on a bearskin rug. Many of the women, especially the larger ones, were uncomfortable with the idea of strutting their stuff on national TV, and they simply weren’t prepared to be that emotionally naked. Plus, the designers were all so exhausted by the time our relatives arrived, we were all skating on thin brains. The competition was a combustible situation in the finest of hours, but the combination of body-conscious women and hot-headed designers was lethal. The episode was a bit of a disaster, with the least-svelte women crying on the runway because they were so uncomfortable in what they were wearing—fashion can be cruel that way, but even crueler when the wearer is someone you love.

Reality television is real. The producers never tell you what to say or what to do. They end up with hours of footage from many different cameras, and they will edit and distill personalities for the sake of telling a story, but generally the camera doesn’t lie. If Omarosa claims she’s really not a bitch, and she was merely edited to look that way, you can rest assured that she really is a bitch. During your waking hours cameras are on and you’re miced—it