It is 6 a.m. on Monday morning and I am lying in bed, eyes wide open. Last night I had a dream that I was kidnapped and detained in Tulum which I realize sounds wonderful but it made even the penguin sighting on the West Side Highway yesterday seem angelic and liberating. (Note: the penguin in question was actually Amelia dressed in black and white.) The first show today will be Carolina Herrera but before that, I will take a shower because I haven’t done that since last Wednesday night. I will also write a review about Hood by Air and Public School. They are distilling this moment in time using fashion and I’m sticking to my guns on that.
Between us, I’ll have my hair blown out because underneath the ripped denim and sloppy shirts lies a girl who just wants to grow up like the rest of fashion week.
6:42 a.m.: I am clean. My husband asked if the shower is always that loud to which I reply: huh? I am going to make a coffee with a Nespresso machine I have not used since it was given to me in 2012.
To my pleasure, it works. To my chagrin, this is clearly fake caffeine.
9:46 a.m.: I am now sitting in a pile of clothes that all look the same but are not the same feeling really angry at myself for not getting my shit together — I had so much time and now I am late for a show that is set to start in 14 minutes on the Upper West Side. I settle on high waist cropped jeans (shocker), a black turtleneck (wait, really?) and a white poplin crop top layered over it (cool, but now I need a coat). My feet are pissed off that their favorite pumps have no place getting their soles scratched in the new Nebraska. The sodium streets make me wonder why I still live here. I run out my door, yelling “I hate myself!” with two water bottles in hand and by some miracle of Hans (that’s a Frozen joke, fyi), I am seated by 10:19 at Lincoln Center at Carolina Herrera. There are dresses and fur hoods and I hate my outfit.
By 11:08 I’m home again and changing — into another pair of jeans fetched out of a pile in the middle of my bathroom. I still look stupid but can’t quite blame my clothes for that. I write a review. I tell Victoria Beckham, through the keyboard that be, that Posh Spice would be proud of the way she’s decided to dress her. Then I go to pick up Amelia, who is at the office, likely wearing high waist jeans and looking like a mom with piercing-fostered false edge. We head to 37th Street to see Rosetta Getty’s Fall collection and run into Chris and Shane from Creatures of the Wind. We end up talking to them and dousing our bodies like they are pieces of raw tuna in their Fall collection (sesame ginger dressing) until it’s become inappropriate and we are not asked to leave but make the executive decision to do so regardless.
Rosetta Getty has produced the clothes you want to wear now and most likely will if given the opportunity — there are striped blouses with buttons that hang down the sides to make half-tucking easy for those of us who identify as mortal Jenna Lyons protégés, and tapestry print jackets, which are worth emptying out your piggy bank. There are some turtleneck sweaters with genius-ass slits and tails.
You know what else will probably feel genius-ass? Rosie Assoulin’s Fall presentation, for which we are late.
As suspected, when the clocks strikes 1:22 p.m. and we arrive at the presentation, we are smacked over the head with precisely the fantasy absent from this season. Shirt dresses that are long in the front and cropped in the back to show off our Levi’s-fostered mom asses, wool cropped camisoles worn over button down shirts, flare leg ruffle pants that put the salsa dancing emoji with her plebeian dress to shame.
If designers city-wide are attempting to grow up their clothes, Assoulin is just rolling up her sleeves to ensure that her girl has fun. Because you know what they say, right? She who dies with the biggest skirt does not fit in a casket.
And she who dies in a pair of sunglasses was probably a fan of Karen Walker’s. Her show starts at 2 p.m.; there is a celebrity dog who goes by the name Toast taking photos with bloggers and fans alike. He is the star of Walker’s newest lookbook.
By 3 p.m., street style photographers are huddled outside 330 West Street, where the Phillip Lim show is set to commence and when it does, that sense of growing up is re-evaluated and instilled, proving that the 90s have not yet died but they have become, let’s say, cleaner. Amelia has this theory that the clothes this season have been so blunt because we can’t be (cue: Jonathan Chait’s dissertation on the handicap that is political correctness) and I don’t disagree, but Phillip Lim’s polished grunge also makes me wonder if the cleanliness running through fashion week is a case study of sorts — one imbued with a new sense of clarity that is pleasantly reliable though not as homegrown and community-oriented as New York Fashion Week has possibly felt in previous seasons.
Amelia and I stop at Soho House for lentil soup (chocolate covered cashews) and run into like 16 people from our real lives. All of whom we adore. I wonder if I used “whom” correctly.
We contemplate a glass of wine, said contemplation is vetoed. Thom Browne will start at 5 p.m. and ain’t no one tryina review a Browne show while under the influence — not to be confused with urinary tract infection. Especially because this entirely-black-Browne-show is, depending on where you were educated, either a funeral for Jonah, the biblical prophet who was swallowed whole by a whale, or Vineyard Vines. There are whales etched into everything including the organza, the chiffon, the tweed and the mink.
I hightail it home after Thom Browne, stomach feeling a little queezy (those lentils!), to write this and change because high heels are for chumps and I’m wearing them like a chump. Currently, I’m seated on a couch next to previously tagged husband but for the sake of this sentence, we’ll call him my partner in sex even though it’s been weeks. (Have fun getting pregnant without executing intercourse, Leandra!) He is reading an e-mail subject titled “Seamless Confirmation” which I guess means he ordered food and didn’t ask if I wanted any. His tongue is flung out of the side of his mouth so he kind of looks like that dog, Toast. Girls is on in the background and he is feeling sorry for Hannah. I ask if he read our recap — he did not.
I shut my computer, put on a coat and attempt to head out to Rag and Bone before I am distracted by P-I-S, who is now rolling across an orange foam roller. “Jealous?” He says. Even a three degree evening in white linen sneakers is better than that.