Fashion weak

Well, friends, it's FASHION WEEK in New York! Are you as thrilled as I'm not?!

Admittedly, I would love to "go to a show" and do all that poppycock. I am fascinated by the thought of something being 6' tall and weighing 97 pounds (read: "fascinated," not 'inspired by"). I would love to see Lindsay Lohan humiliated on stage following a line of gazelles in heart-shaped pasties, or Karl f'ing Lagerfeld in a barn full of fake-tattooed 13 year olds. Who wouldn't? But the reality is that I don't think I'd have that much fun (unless I had unlimited access to champagne - but I'd certainly pay back for it the next morning with a hangover - nothing's free in life).

Anyway, after years of thinking that sort of thing would be fun, I've come to construe Fashion Week, and all its accompanying coverage, as little more than a "prettier," thinner version of those blogs that try to tell you what's "appropriate for your work place."

I sort of think they're both agents of conformity, and I just can't get down with that. So, go ahead, put on a few pounds, and then wear the sluttier version of that J. Crew sweater to work.

IT'S OKAY.