What It's Like to be Married to Rachel Zoe
Rachel Zoe's husband, Rodger Berman, explains what life with the superstylist is really like.
Nothing makes your station in life more clear than when a stranger hands you a camera while he poses with your wife. But I'm proud to say I can now add amateur photographer to my growing list of secondary occupations, which also includes valet, personal assistant, and publicist. While being the husband of überstylist Rachel Zoe lets me waltz confidently into fashion shows with Rachel by my side, the VIP treatment usually stops there. Any delusions of grandeur are interrupted by the words "Excuse me, sir, you're in my seat."
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I met Rachel in the summer of 1991. She was 19, and I was 22. She was a restaurant hostess, and I was working as a waiter in Washington, D.C., where we both attended college. I vividly remember the first time I saw her, wearing a tight black minidress, high-heeled pumps, stick-straight hair, and big red lips covered in M.A.C. Chili lipstick (her trademark). She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I quickly learned that she also had more clothes than any woman I had ever seen. I often wondered if she'd ever do an outfit change mid-date.
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Seven years later, we were standing at the altar. Rachel wore a custom Isaac Mizrahi dress-a white replica of his red version worn by Amber Valletta on a magazine cover. Who knew a bride could walk down the aisle so gracefully in six-inch heels?
Fast-forward to today: We are expecting our first child, who will lead us on our greatest adventure yet-and I won't be surprised if our baby has Chanel diapers, Missoni blankets, and an Hermès bassinet. People say he or she is going to be the most fashionable baby ever. And I believe them. Look at me! I have no predisposition to fashion, but thanks to Rachel I can't leave the house without worrying about whether or not my clothes match.
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And that's fine by me. For a heterosexual man-I know that's a hotly debated topic, but only among those who don't know me-I have grown to really appreciate fashion. My favorite fashion shows are Michael Kors, Diane von Furstenberg, and Oscar de la Renta because they always offer up beautiful clothes that I can actually imagine Rachel and her clients wearing.
When it comes to Fashion Week, I'm over the too-cool-for-school runway experience with loud music in a raw space that's inconvenient for everyone. And I'm not even wearing heels.
But Fashion Week can evoke a certain sense of accomplishment. Have you ever felt proud for walking through your hotel room without tripping, because there are enough tranny-heeled shoes on the floor to fill a transgender shoe store? Have you ever just left your hotel door open because it's easier than getting up each time a package, flowers, or a gift arrives? Has your wife ever scoured four racks of clothing she had flown in for Fashion Week and declared, "I have nothing to wear"? I can say yes to all.
And it's not like I can ever get away. There are always people around. Whether it's our assistant, the hair and makeup artists coming twice a day, or the ever-present members of Team Zoe, it's like a real-life fashion channel. Don't get me wrong: I love Rachel's "gaggle of gays," but if I have to hear about how great everyone looks one more time ... (Unless, of course, they are telling me how good I look, in which case I am secretly happy.)
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The funny thing is, none of this really bothers me. Despite my bitching and moaning-which I've perfected, by the way-my dirty little secret is that I love it all. It's better than sitting at home with a Netflix movie while I wait for Chinese food. At least, until baby Berman gets here.
While I don't know how things are going to change when the baby comes, I know that they will change. But I think it's entirely possible to have a career in fashion and raise a child. Stella McCartney is on her fourth child and remains both a fashion icon and a great mom. All I know is, Rachel and I will figure it out. And if she wants to take the baby to Fashion Week, I say, why not? But we'll probably need an extra hotel room for all of the baby clothes.
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