Life is a Fashion Show

Tonight I had the first-chance privilege of attending two Fashion Week shows: Max Azria and Ports 1961 (my darling husband procured two VIP tickets). We were kindly escorted to the Amex Skybox, where we were treated like royalty (complementary hors d'oeuvres, drinks, programs, and lounge seats). Like typical shows, Max Azria started late, but the wait was worth it: cascades of fitted, delicate dresses glorified the runway, and the sight of live models reinforced my belief that models are of an alien species (my husband graciously admitted that they were too thin: and yes, this was a criticism). Ports 1961 started about a half hour later, and during the wait I was also escorted to the bathroom (unglamorous port-a-potties). During the wait I happened to see Fergie walking swiftly by, head bowed and surrounded by her entourage, and then Brittany Murphy cheerfully took some photos with random men. Ports 1961 had a lighthouse theme, and the Celtic music reinforced the Irish influence of the fall line: rich shades of hunter greens, teals, purples, and oranges with tribal touches (fur, feather) and British coverage (capes in particular were of notable interest to me). We ended the night with a plentiful goody bag (Bliss and MAC products, alcohol, magazines, and chocolate) that took at least half an hour to go through. All in all, I must say that the fashion show experience has reinforced this notion: Life is a fashion show. You walk, you show, you prance, and you prove: you are glamorous, and everyone needs to know it.