For New Yorker’s, Fashion Week signifies a week when fashionable people across the globe descend upon the tents to predict what you and I will be wearing in two seasons. For those who have not actually attended a show, it is an adrenaline rush. Generally annoying because it is hustle, hustle, hustle and people trying hard for the spotlight however, when you enter the tents it is all worth it.
As the crowd fills in, the lights go dim, and the DJ plays the first beat perfectly timed to the lights shining on the runway, your heart pounds and the flutter of excitement overwhelms you. This feeling lasts for the whole 6-7 minutes the collection shows and you either leave feeling satisfied or feeling a void that can only be filled by another brilliant show.
As writers are sent invitations to cover the shows, we rifle through our closets for something that will emulate the air of the slender waifs that grace the runways.
That’s where my week started, crazily rooting through my closet for something to wear after I received my Fashion Week schedule. I was slated to cover nine shows and three after parties in the course of a week which would effectively exhaust my wardrobe. Settling on something, I began day one at Fashion Week.