FASHION WEEK: J. Mendel is for Old People Not Brashionistas

What’s more obnoxious: The undeserved entitlement of the young and tragically hip, or the undeserved entitlement of the old and painfully wealthy? It’s the question I asked myself while standing on line at The Plaza Hotel while a small army of Upper East Side ladies waited to be admitted into the [J.Mendel show], held in the former hotel’s opulent Grand Ballroom.

I was looking forward to trading up from the 19-year-old brashionistas, prancing through Bryant Park desperately hoping to be photographed for a quiet afternoon with the silver-haired, dignified crowd that The Plaza is guaranteed to reel in. Boy, was I wrong.

One thing about the youngsters: They’ll stand patiently in line if it means they might get in. The seniors, not so much. Being old, they have less time to wait and when they’re huddled together at the side entrance amidst construction scaffolding and the earsplitting whirring of delivery trucks, they tend to be less than cooperative. A pair of women stood nearby, openly contemplating cutting in front of everyone.

“I think the line starts back there,” one of them said. “Oh… but-I-tink-dat-I-would-die,” said the other in a robotic, unidentifiable accent.

From the door to the entrance of the ballroom, little old ladies barked angrily at security guards, wagging their fingers and demanding “respect.” Staring down at the women defiantly, the guards would repeat the same thing over and over again, “If you don’t have an invitation, please step to the side.” Sounds simple enough to me.

Inside, my good friend Angie and I snagged a couple of empty seats three rows from the back, in perfect view of Brooke Shields and her Lipstick Jungle co-star, Kim Raver. We removed the name cards from our newly acquired chairs.

“I’ll be… Miguel Enamorado,” I said, trying my best to look Latin. “And I’m Emily Finkbinder,” Angie pronounced enthusiastically.

Stiff, almost fragile looking models teetered up and down the runway on Christian Louboutins while swathed in silk tweeds and metallic brocades. The Mendel family’s furrier roots showed through as half the collection was adorned with Mongolian lamb, platinum red fox and Russian barguzine sable tails. According to the press materials (originally intended for Mr. Enamorado and Ms. Finkbinder), this is Mendel’s answer to a world obsessed with disposable fashion.

Lasting quality, it seems, can be found in rigid,  cocoon back jackets and clunky wool tweeds. Was it really worth yelling at PR girls and abusing the staff? I dunno. Check back with me when I’m older, maybe then I’ll have stronger feelings toward hand-pleated, double-faced satin.