As Fashion Week approacheth, it’s time for my very chic screed about why I can’t stand it, even though I secretly wish I was an 80-pound model winning international validation for clomping down a runway in an asymmetrical plaid tutu.
But the truth is, there’s so much to hate about this expressive, oppressive time when fashion struts for your approval.
*Anna Wintour never says hello.
*The wrong pair of shoes can ruin an otherwise perfect outfit.
*The second row has worse gift bags than the first. (It should be the other way around, to make up for the bad view.)
*Designers endlessly regurgitate the ’60s, the ’80s, and their 20s.
*The most ridiculed outfits are usually the ones I like the best.
And so many other reasons why I’m going back into the closet so I can give every outfit back to Housing Works, where I got them in the first place.
Oy. Fuck you, fashion.