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Friday, February 20, 2015

What they don't tell @fashionweek

My 1st short story. Think of it more as satire rather than non-fiction. Because making fun of yourself is the best! 

Mental Breakdown Week?

Imagine a soulless, bottomless pit full of superficial standards and brand new designer shoes. Besides the bottomless pit, because fashion folks have much better taste than that, this is your fashion week experience. Crowds of men and women trying to out strut each other to prove how much more important each of them is than the other. It's like that in the fashion industry, twice a year they line you up in order of importance. Not only do your seats have to match the upper rankings, but your outfits have to be up to par, too. This causes fashionistas to overdose on Xanax and have the seasonal reoccurring mental breakdown right before the shows, and they aren't even the models. What they don't tell you is that no one gives a shit how skinny or pretty the models are. They are gone in an instant without even a trace of their name, but the cover of page 6 or a feature on Vogue last forever.

"How much is your outfit? Oh, it's less than $4,000?..."
"You're not wearing the newest Chanel boots?"
"I know you got that on sale."
"Why are your shoes 2 seasons ago?"
"Why didn't you brush your hair this morning?" 
"How did they even let you in? Security, can we escort these freaks out of here?"

The echoes of these judgments are heard everywhere. Of course, they aren't actually heard but rather travel through the halls of the Lincoln Center tents in a mixture of glances between the *higher* society and a few eye rolls. No words are needed, the tell-all silence is enough. The pretty rich girls never need to actually pronounce the harsh words of superiority. They FEEL that are better than most of these one-time attenders and they know that the "others" feel it, too. They just flip their hair, adjust their limited edition Birkin, and pretend that their shallow, superficial being isn't killing them inside. Daddy's money is all they need.

Keep in mind that this all occurs even before you enter in the sacred gates of the "Theater" where, no doubt, a major show is amongst its peak of chaos. Just getting a ticket into the show was an honor. You can practically feel the organized mess behind the stage. But, the countless hundreds of thousands of dollars and slave-labor man hours are no comparison to what you're going to experience: the horror of having to sit in the 7th row.

"This is social suicide!" you think to yourself, while practicing breathing slowly like your yoga teacher had coached you. You know, to prevent another temper tantrum.

This is broadcasted live. HOW CAN I LOWER MYSELF TO THIS STANDARD? I was 3rd row last season…. DID I GET UGLIER? FATTER? WHAT THE ACTUAL F#%^? I dress way better than this depressing 7th row. The girl next to me is wearing bunny ears for god's sake.

You swallow your pride, judgments (not really),  and maybe some alcohol stashed in your bag and pretend like the 7th row is not completely bursting your ego, because once the lights dim, the DJ starts the contemporary music, and the first model struts down the runway, nothing else in the world matters. 


Edited by Allison Kostusik