Backstage and Behind the Scenes at the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show 2016

I have just enough time to make it back and change into my Rent the Runway dress before I’m whisked back off to the Beachwaver Suite to get extensions put in. When in Rome (er, Paris), ya know?

We arrive back at the Palais, and even the venue has dressed up for the occasion. It’s engulfed in a wash of bright pink lights with heavily armed policemen and women stationed around the perimeter. You need a ticket to pick up your actual ticket to pick up your after-party wristband in order to get through the doors. Pay close attention, and you’ll see Kendall Jenner’s bodyguard floating among the crowd. There’s a reason this place is so heavily guarded (see: Kim Kardashian’s robbery), and I’m not mad about it.

After a cocktail hour and photos in the foyer, we’re ushered to our seats. Immediately I lose my chill. Sarah Potempa has reserved a few beauty editors’ seats next to her in the second row right next to the stage. I’m sorry there’s no way to humblebrag about this. This was fucking cool.

From there, the show was a blur. The one thing I unfortunately remember: Sarah was waving to all the models as they walked by, so when Kendall took the stage, Sarah shouted at her and Kendall waved back. Then I waved at Kendall like a maniac. It’s like when you’re walking down the street and someone says hi and you respond, only to realize they weren’t actually talking to you. I did that to Kendall freaking Jenner. In the second row. In front of cameras. I think I may have just become a meme.

After the show we’re sent up a flight of stairs into a room where cuts of the show are already playing. NBD. There’s a DJ playing remixed versions of classic hits, two bars that are serving Ciroc cocktails (I grab one), and in the back, there’s a VIP section where The Weeknd is hanging out. I casually walk that way.

Not even 20 minutes into the party, Yolanda Hadid appears and gives The Weeknd a hug. Before I know it, Bella is walking over to him. They talk, pose for a picture with Gigi, he hugs her, and then the two models leave. Oh my God. That just happened. I text my work wife immediately. I feel a little like a paparazzo, and that makes me feel gross, but I also feel like I just found out my best friend and her ex—both of whom I love—are on good terms. It’s weird how attached we get to celebrities.

Eventually I grow hungry, and it’s time to leave this night of glamour for French fries and a steak tartare. Irina may be able to subsist on salmon, but not me.

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Our flight leaves the day after the show at the very civilized time of 2:30 P.M. Nevertheless, the lobby of the hotel is a bit like a scene from The Walking Dead. Some of us never adjusted to Paris time and were up every night until 4:00 or 5:00 A.M. (with or without a room-service cheeseburger). Some of us were out celebrating out all night. Everyone gets on the chartered buses for the airport. Again, there’s a police escort to get us through traffic. We’re weaving into opposite lanes, running lights again. We’re on our way to that big private plane that will take us back to reality.

Photos: tarmac, Getty Images; backstage, Federico de Angelis.