Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid are the freshman girls who immediately started dating seniors. They’re the senior girls who didn’t date anyone at all, because they were captains of the lacrosse team by that point, and were “over boys,” and they had each other. They’re the kind of girls that people at other schools would gossip about endlessly, even though they had never actually met them before (“Gigi gave my friend gum once”). This is all to say: Gigi and Kendall are—in that very high-school way—the “most popular” girls right now, and this has perhaps never been so evident as it was Tuesday at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show.

The show—now in its 20th year—is like the Golden Globes of fashion shows. It’s fun and glitzy and celebrity-studded, even if the high-fashion crowd would never take it as seriously as the Oscars (in this case, the ready-to-wear shows in New York and Europe). The lingerie is as egregiously bright as the dispositions of the models—cascading down the runway—lip-synching the hit song that the shiny musical act is performing a few feet ahead of them. To walk in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is, for a model, one of the most notable achievements there is, one of the surest signs you have reached a different echelon; the Angels are the ultimate “cool kids” cafeteria table, the one you don’t even dare walk past on the way to your own for fear of being blinded by the sheer force of their shine.

I enter the 69th Regiment Armory (built a century ago) on Tuesday, slightly before one P.M., and am asked to wait in a pen of sorts, with a range of other journalists, before entering. A bomb-sniffing dog emerges to check out our belongings; this, in tandem with the historic setting (the building, the first armory erected in New York in the Beaux-Arts style, was named a national landmark in 1965), makes me feel sort of like I’m on the set of Homeland, improbably repurposed for a glamorous fashion show. We are escorted up a series of stairways and elevators and led through a number of “holding areas,” which makes the arrival at our final destination—backstage at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show—all the more satisfying. Taking in the sea of roughly 200 models and stylists and publicists and photographers and reporters, weaving around each other, it feels like I have walked into the world’s most lush airport terminal.

I’m allowed to essentially roam freely among the angels and models—all of whom are wearing white-and-pink-striped robes—though I’m accompanied by a staffer (dressed in all black) named Walker (“wait, that’s his name, or he’s your walker?” my colleague texts me). It starts to feel like I have a bodyguard in Walker (“I’m going to make my way toward Lily Aldridge, over there,” I would tell him), which, frankly, made me feel ever so slightly like an Angel myself.

Arms wielding phones extend in all directions, and the models themselves are never without 12-18 phones pointed bluntly toward their faces. (Some of these cameras are foisted by the models themselves, of course, as there is a selfie being taken around every corner.) At least two hairstylists, needing to make space to work on Angel tresses, inadvertently elbow me. (Watching the fervent expressions and dexterous hands of these stylists, I can’t help but think of the way a pit crew attends to a vehicle in a NASCAR race.)

Seated on a plush couch, I talk to Alessandra Ambrosio—who is sipping a green juice, of course—for a few minutes. We are interrupted briefly by Behati Prinsloo, who hears us talking about Ambrosio’s training regimen and exclaims, “She doesn’t need training, she looks fabulous!” On my best friend’s wedding day, I spent the afternoon in a hotel suite with about 11 girls, and this backstage situation—the nervous energy, the sisterly bonds between friends, the pageant-y hair—feels like a very (very) large-scale version of that.

While nearly every model has a throng of onlookers surrounding them, the pockets that form around Gigi and Kendall are by far the most intense. Hadid (20 years old, 8.3 million Instagram followers, daughter of former model and Real Housewives star Yolanda Foster) seems, in person, to be the embodiment of the word “bodacious.” Tanned in a way that makes you dream of a beach cabana; “curvy,” at least by Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show standards; and approachable-seeming (but not so approachable-seeming that you think you could actually stand a chance at her liking you), Hadid seems almost bioengineered for celebrity. Jenner (20 years old, 41.1 million Instagram followers, half-sister to Kim Kardashian) has a different, quieter energy (if Hadid’s word is “bodacious,” Jenner’s might be “gorgeous”). I watch as Jenner snaps into action when a photographer approaches, but it’s quite easy to imagine her in flannel pants, with no makeup on, flipping through a months-old copy of Vogue. (This may be because we’ve seen her grow up over the years on Keeping Up with the Kardashians.)

I watch as a group of twentysomething button-down-clad men—who have been roaming the room taking pictures with several of the models—spots Jenner and erupts in glee. She, to them, is clearly the main event. It is possible—as much as one can feel bad for someone as freakishly attractive and successful as either Hadid or Jenner—to feel bad for them, as you watch as their personal space is perpetually encroached upon. Every change in facial expression is simply an opportunity for another covertly snapped photograph by a stranger.

Romee Strijd, walking in the show for her second year, tells me that her key takeaway the previous year, after her first show, had been that it “goes by so quickly.” As I leave the backstage area—after nearly running headfirst into Martha Hunt—and say my good-byes to Walker, I realize that, in a certain way, the 40 minutes I spent backstage feels like it had lasted just a few seconds. By the time I get home, it feels like I was never there at all, the dozens of photos of Kendall and Gigi on my iPhone the only evidence I have that I was.

The taping of the show itself is a few hours later, and I immediately regret my decision to bring an umbrella with me. Everyone in the audience looks like they’ve probably appeared in a Lindsay Lohan Instagram before; wherever you look is black leather. We’ve all been handed small plastic bags to place our phones in, but nobody uses them. (Photos and social media during the taping are strictly banned.) As I wait for the taping to begin, sipping a glass of champagne handed to me by a man who must have been a Watch What Happens Live bartender at some point in time, I notice Kris Jenner sitting across the runway, in the front row, in a very colorful, very shimmery dress. Seated a few spots away from her is Tyga (a rapper perhaps best known for his cameos in girlfriend Kylie Jenner’s Snapchat stories). And, several seats down from him, is Caitlyn Jenner, wearing a short black dress. A stranger sits down next to me and immediately says “Congrats!” to the girl in the row behind us, whom she apparently knows; I almost want to turn around and congratulate her, too—such is the atmosphere in the room.

The show begins (40 minutes late) and, as Strijd had prepared me for, it’s over in an instant. My thoughts, as I watch the models move down the runway, tend to be centered around what each Angel must be thinking about as she stomps down the court, looping around the Weeknd before returning backstage. How unusual to spend an entire life imagining that one day you might get to walk in this show, only for it to actually take place, and for it to last for less time than it takes to brush your teeth. The rush of it—all that anticipation for a series of brief moments—must be nearly incapacitating.

Against the backdrop of corporate America, there are several moments of real humanity that shine through. Selena Gomez, in place, waiting for her cue, turns to someone in the audience and mouths, “I’m so nervous!,” before her live performance. Kris Jenner beams when Kendall reaches the end of the runway. A few people in the audience stand when the Weeknd starts performing “Can’t Feel My Face,” and, soon, everyone (though not Kris Jenner and boyfriend Corey Gamble) is also on their feet, singing along. For the duration of that song, at least—our phones in plastic bags (either literally or metaphorically), in the presence of unquestionably beautiful women wearing wings—it is possible to forget about e-mails and cab fares and obligations and deadlines.

During their “bows” at the end of the show, Kendall and Gigi hold hands.

I leave the venue and, once outside, realize I am a few feet away from Tyga, who is trying to maneuver around a partition, asking a man where his car is. I realize I left my umbrella inside the venue, and I am somewhat damp by the time I’ve hailed a cab. The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is decidedly over.

The official after-party takes place at Tao Downtown, and, once inside, I make my way to the bar, where I spot Anthony Mackie and Austin Mahone mingling with other guests. Darren Criss walks by with a friend. This show (and this party) seems to attract all stripes of celebrity.

The party does not actually start, though, until, you guessed it, Gigi and Kendall arrive. They enter separately—each in a tight dress with cutouts—and are escorted into a private area, in the center of the club. Once they’ve been seated, the entire shape of the party shifts around this new focal point. Everyone—from 50-something men in suits to individuals who could pass for high-school students (and probably actually are high-school students)—gathers around their blocked-off area, gazing at Gigi and Kendall as though they are exotic animals in a cage. I watch as partygoers take Snapchats and videos of them (a security guard slaps my hand when I try to take a picture, which makes me feel like I should be punished by having my iPhone “Recently Deleted” photos folder made public). Gigi and Kendall appear basically unbothered by all the gazing; they wouldn’t know any other way.

Various models enter the Kendall-Gigi zone to say hello. Caitlyn visits for a while, and Kendall jumps up and whispers in her ear for a few moments—and I am reminded that Kendall is the same age I was as a college sophomore, when I used to call my parents every time I needed to, like, deposit a check or make a sandwich. At one point, Gigi whispers in Kendall’s ear for what feels like three minutes straight, and I text about 17 different people to let them know that I have witnessed what feels like a spiritual act. On and off for her entire time at the party, Kendall text messages furiously. And let me tell you: watching Kendall Jenner text is downright inspiring. Watching Kendall Jenner text makes me feel like I can achieve anything I want to in this life. Watching Kendall Jenner text makes me feel like I have angel wings affixed to my back.

Eventually Kendall and Gigi stand up, and the throngs of people pressed up against their section reluctantly make room for them to leave. Once the two have left, everyone turns back around, slumping a bit, and says hello to their friends again, and checks their text messages, and slurps the remaining liquid in their drinks. In their absence, what else is there to do?

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