The walk up the steps of Bryant Park and into the tents of Fashion Week comprises one of the more glamorous moments of my year. For the few seconds it takes to wind my way through security and girls handing out Fashion Week Dailies, I can pretend like I’m Anna Wintour. Sure, the flashbulbs may not be popping for me, but I wouldn’t want to reality of fame anyway. I like my private vices to stay private, thank you.
Once inside the tent, the craze begins. People swarm everywhere, and strangers keep trying to hand me things. I alternate between calming myself with the thought that being young and attractive can get you through any New York moment, and worrying that people are judging me because my coat is from the Gap.
The Max Azria show will start at least half an hour late, a coworker tells me. Everyone in the madhouse surrounding the catwalk is startlingly stylish and hot. I immediately want to sleep with all of them. Even the photographers are mouth-watering.
The shuffle scoot through the crowd over to my seat yields a Wintour sighting, along with a smattering of socialites. By the time the hubbub settles down, the count is at Rihanna, Sarah Michelle Geller, Rose McGowan and Fergie.
Tucked away in my fourth row seat against the far wall, I have plenty of time to contemplate the seating hierarchy and smugly congratulate myself for being important enough to warrant a seat assignment at all. In fact, my ever-informed coworker says that the spot where we’re sitting is where Vivaca A. Fox sat at a previous show. So despite the fact that I can only see the model’s backs as they start down the runway, I feel content with my station in life. Perhaps one day I will garner a middle seat near-ish the front row.
Blip-blopping music startles me awake from my daydream of gently pelting the models with a cheeseburger to the head. The ladies who are high stepping down the runway in a variety of muted colors look like alien giraffe babies. Corset pieces and wide belts give the outfits a feminine silhouette, while a selective use of studs gives the glint of hardware. The most confusing fashion choice is the funny short-brimmed felt hats that have a piece of cloth attached to the back, covering the models’ hair. Desert wear meets a clothing mullet? On the other hand, Max Azria’s soft, slim ankle-banded pants look excellent paired with sky-high stilettos and give me hope that sweat pants will be an acceptable fashion choice one day.
As soon as the show is over, everyone leaps up like they are on fire and zoom toward the exits. It takes all of my subway-during-rush-hour skills to get out of the tent, not pass out from claustrophobia and avoid sharp-elbowed socialites.
The Max Azria collection was beautiful, yes, but the pay off of all that glamour and glitz is that I have a headache the size of a small third-world country. At least at the Dennis Basso show there were protestors and medical emergencies. Too bad fur creeps me out.