Legitimate Reasons to Loathe Fashion Week

Well, well. It looks like it’s Fashion Week time once again here in New York City. We have name-droppers, legit designers, wannabe designers, models from all corners of the world wandering the streets, and everyone’s head is a wee bit inflated for some reason. Why? Because no matter who you are, if you live in New York City you know someone who knows someone who used to know someone who dated that woman who pretty much invented Fashion Week–or at least this will be some bullshit version of what you’ll hear over the next few days. If you’re not talking about Fashion Week, then you’re a nobody, and nobody wants to be a nobody.

As one who briefly worked in the fashion industry, I can attest to the fact that it is an exciting place to be. It’s also superficial, catty, creates false egos, and usually results in years of necessary therapy to work through it all after the fact. It’s a land of make believe, a world in which so few get to see up close, that this alone gives it even more unwarranted cred. It’s there, it exists, but you can never have it. Most people have a better chance of going to the moon than getting an invite to a Fashion Week show by a top designer, and considering the fact that NASA has nixed its space shuttle program, that says a lot.

Although I am someone who’s been collecting Vogue magazines since she was eleven, would throw her best friend under a bus to own a couture Alexander McQueen dress, and just might be softly crying into her pillow next week when I know I’m missing out on the Zac Posen show, there are more than a few reasons to not just dislike but literally loathe New York’s Fashion Week. This isn’t steeped in jealousy because I won’t be attending any of my dream shows this year, but an actual legitimate display of the fuckery that is brought upon our city twice a year. Like most things in life, it’s great in theory, but a shit show when you’re standing in it.

For starters, fuck trying to get a cab for the next week. Seriously. It’s not happening now matter the day or time. Not only are you competing with your usual New Yorkers to hail a taxi, but you’ll also have all those “visitors” with whom to contend. Besides, as a New Yorker, you should be taking the subway, and if you don’t know how to, then this is your chance to practice.

Secondly, expect lines at your favorite restaurants, especially if they fall under the “trendy” category. Granted, on any given night there’s usually a wait at most places unless you’re in the mood for Applebee’s in Times Square. But you can be certain lines will be longer, and anyone more famous than you will be seated before you even if they came in after you. This is how life works, so suck it up. You should have become famous if you wanted to avoid this problem.

Attention Bushwick: they’re coming for you.

It’s also pretty much a guarantee that a friend of a friend is going to tell you at some point over the next week that they can get you into a certain event. They’ll tell you that your name is on the list, and you’re all set. Of course, you’ll arrive, your name won’t be there, and you’ll feel like a jackass as you demand and make pleas for the doorman to check the list again. He’s not going to, though, because your name isn’t there. Oh, and you’re a nobody.

After your lowly status on the totem pole of fashion society is confirmed by rejection to an event, you should prepare yourself for even further damage to your ego. If you’re smart, you’ll emotionally get ready for this now by having your therapist on speed dial (although you should already anyway).

Even if you’re the most confident person in the world, seeing all those models wandering the streets will take a toll on your soul. They’re tall, they’re thin, and even with disheveled hair and no make-up they still look they just pounced out of your September issue of Vogue. You can’t blame them though; it is their job to be fashionable, but you can still find them irritating because they can’t decide what they want to order when they’re in front of you at your neighborhood coffee shop but are forgiven for their inability to decide because they’re a foot taller than you and no one can see you anyway. It’s only fair to be allowed to be pissy over such things; there should be some justice for us, the little guys, during Fashion Week.

Lastly, Fashion Week is no longer contained! Ever since it was kicked from the iconic tents at Bryant Park, it has leaked all over the city, taking over the most random and obscure places. You may even walk out your front door and see the next up and coming “hip” designer trying to make a statement with a presentation of his collection on your sidewalk. They’re all running wild, and while you may do your best to escape it, you can’t. It’s just impossible. They are everywhere and reoccurring for a whole fucking week! They don’t make Valtrex for such things, so again, you have to suck it up, furrow and mutter profanities under your breath. 

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