Glamorama

For one week every fall, girls all around the metro area get up extra early. They carefully put on their makeup, style their hair, match their bags to their shoes and go on a Starbucks binge. They critique every seam, stitch and zipper and upon discovery of any new name and a Starbucks fueled fury, blast their twitter, instagram and facebook with their knowledge of fashion. These girls breathe fashion. They stuff their toes into heels in hope to get photographed standing around looking chic at Lincoln Center. Suddenly what's not in, is in and the whole city feels like I'm living in some Glamorama spin off. (Less fucked up but just as bewildering.)

Everyone is asking me or telling me rather what show they saw, which model or celebrity they stumbled upon at the Le Bain fashion night out party. By telling me I mean scream/speaking on their iphones walking down the street or to their other fashion friend on the subway. PR girls everywhere are skipping lunch to go see Opening Ceremony but of course it was so worth it and what is lunch when fashion can fill you up anyway. Skipping lunch is the fashion equivalent to dying a thousand deaths in the name of a designer.

In the name of fashion, all PR, magazine and self-proclaimed style authorities should keep their voices down and conversations to themselves. And please stand somewhere else looking awkwardly chic but without-caring-I-look-this-odd-everyday-because-I'm-an-individual-with-a-creative-flair. I would like to get to yoga on time.

P.S. There is lipstick on your teeth.