I just do, okay?
I know I’m not supposed to. And I like clothing! I do! I like that Fashion Week exists! I support its right to exist!
But last night I skipped out on the first night of Fashion Week, and God, it was glorious. I felt free, like a magnificent pterosaurs. I didn’t go to anything. Don’t worry, we have good coverage coming, it’s just coming from people who aren’t me. Instead, I went to the New York opening of Georgetown Cupcake. Gosh, it was nice. They gave out six cupcakes and a book full of cupcake recipes. And the book is also filled with heartwarming anecdotes about their parents and learning to follow their dreams!
You know where there are no heartwarming anecdotes about learning to follow your dreams? Fucking Fashion Week.
Actually, that’s not true. The first time you go to Fashion Week it’s pretty spectacular. I remember interning at my first job and wanting to go to fashion week. I wanted this very, very badly. I thought that I’d go to New York Fashion Week and somehow, on some noticeable level, I would be different (in much the same way, I remember staring at myself in the mirror after losing my virginity and being disappointed that I did not look visibly different).
I remember thinking that this was going to be the height of New York glamour, this “going to Fashion Week” thing. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen once I got there. Actually, I know exactly what I thought was going to happen. I thought that all the attendees were all going to sit there and talk to one another about how beautiful we were, and then someone would gently place a cupcake and a glass of champagne on our laps. On a tray. They’d have them on a tray, so they wouldn’t tip over or anything.
And then we’d laugh. Oh, how we’d laugh! And the models would behave approximately the way they did in Gia, just waving their arms and dancing on the runways.
And then the moment comes when you actually go to Fashion Week, and you enter the tents, you realize that no one is having any fun.
Instead, people are pointedly, deliberately not having fun while wearing very high heels. Here is what happens:
1) You check in. The process is much the same as it is in an airport, which is to say, thank God, they have computer devices that will print out your ticket now. You used to just wait in line. Forever. While PR girls occasionally accused you of misspelling your own name.
2) You will wait in another line to go into the show. The show will be running 45 minutes late. You will wait in this line for half and hour, watching people shifting back and forth nervously in their heels. No one will say anything.
3) In the rare event that people do say things, they’ll take the form of loudly broad-casted announcements about the speaker’s own importance. Did you know that the speaker is a close personal friend of Marc Jacobs? Okay, speaker. The lower profile the show, the more of these exciting bursts you’ll hear.
4) You will finally get to go in. Maybe you will get a seat. If not, you’ll stand in the back row. If you get a seat, you will sit there for 20 minutes waiting for the show to start. God willing there will be a goody bag you can root through. You should try to check e-mail on your phone frantically until you realize there are no bars inside Lincoln Center, which makes all kind of sense. That does not deter anyone from frantically trying to refresh their phones.
5) Actual show. Models walk. Look at how identical they all look.
6) Designer comes onstage. Clapping! Lots of clapping! We are all close personal friends of the designer!
7) It’s going to take 15 minutes to make your way out, because people will have formed in massive clusters around any famous person in attendance. Did you ever see Fantastic Voyage? Okay, imagine that and then imagine a blood clot. Like navigating your way through that.
8) If you haven’t seen Fantastic Voyage, you should. It will really give you something to think about in these situations.
Basically, it’s a two hour commitment for 15 minutes worth of entertainment. It’s all the fun of going to the airport if the point of going to the airport were to get on a plane, watch people walk up and down a runway for 15 minutes, and then leave.
Now, that’s not to say the clothes aren’t beautiful. The clothes are very beautiful. And it is very nice to be invited. But the waiting in line forever, DMV style with, let’s be honest, really awful people who I do not believe are actually Marc Jacobs’ friends is a nightmare.
It’s all well and good, and it’s an institution. But frankly? I’d really prefer just to go out and eat a cupcake.