A Fashionable High School Circus
Sound the bells! Blow the horns! Whip the heinies! (What?) Fashion Week starts today, officially making this the most stressful outfit week for everyone involved (except Anna Wintour, maybe). Indeed, this week — or should I say month — is as much about the outfits on the sidewalk as it is about the new collections on the runways. Actually, I’d say that the sidewalk is almost more chaotic simply because it’s that much more competitive. Designer’s collections at least have a scheduled spot for buyers, editors, and other fashion mongers to see their pieces, whereas the sidewalk is one big best dressed contest.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t let the street style photographers get to my head. When I walk up the steps of Lincoln Center I await the moment for someone to come tap on my shoulder asking if they can take a picture. It feels good to have a swarm of photographers snapping away at you; it’s a wordless ego boost. I can’t imagine that Emma Stone or the Olsens feel the same way, but that’s an everyday scenario they have to face, whereas this is my f*cking fifteen minutes and I’m going to own it.
However, while the camera huddle can be a big pat-on-the-back confidence booster, it can also make you feel like crap. There are definitely some days that the photographer huddle doesn’t swarm around me. After all, I’m not Beyonce so why should they? But when they don’t flock I panic and second guess myself for the most materialistic reasons. Suddenly I’m wondering why I didn’t go with the YSL heels that pinch my feet. Why I chose this particular pair of ripped jeans over the ones with a lighter wash. And for christ’s sake, why is that b*tch with the bunny ears getting her picture taken? Am I back in high school wondering why my crush chose Megan* over me? It certainly feels like it.
Truth be told, Fashion Week is a bit like high school, but with higher heels, fewer straight men, and hardly any puberty. And just like in high school, there are the popular kids, the weirdos, the quiet group, the rebels, and then there’s me. I never fit into a particular “crowd” in high school, though I got along with almost everyone and I guess you could say I ran with the more popular crew; but I’ve always marched to my own beat. (One made from a steel drum if you will.)
So, as I approach my twelfth fashion week season (hand me my cane and dentures, would ya?), I’m not going to give myself a pep talk in not letting the popularity contest get to my head. Nor am I going to vow to take the subway more often than a taxi. And I’m certainly not going to deny myself a fresh croissant from the Le Pain Quotidien so conveniently located by both Lincoln Center and Milk Studios. Because after twelve seasons of blisters, hangovers, cabbie fights, and more fashion candy than I can handle, it’s about time I take it for what it is: a joyride into the most impeccably dressed circus I’ll ever have the pleasure of attending.
And that’s about all I have to say on that.