There’s nothing like New York Fashion Week. Shoes. Clothes. Makeup. Hairdos. I mean, I’m a girl. I like this stuff. Shoes, jewelry and purses are like little pieces of art. I admire them not because I want them (even though I usually, really, really do) but because they are beautiful and spectacular, perfect little pieces of happiness. They are art. They are form following function, like happiness in the form of a handbag. Ahhhhhh!
But, I must admit, at Fashion Week, most of these outfits, shoes, purses, jewelry and all that are attached to a female model who may or may not be of legal voting age and void of cellulite or fat anywhere for that matter. Some models look like they need to eat a couple of ham sandwiches. They’re certainly not eating the green crystal-topped Fashion Week cupcakes for sale just down from Lincoln Center at New York’s famed Magnolia Bakery. As a fashion reporter, you can walk away from Fashion Week with a very reduced sense of self worth and a body image in the Lincoln Center toilet if you’re not careful. It’s enough to make you want to eat two cupcakes, which is exactly what I did right before I unbuttoned the top notch on my jeans.
