As some of you may know, we are thick in the middle of one of Moi's favorite times of year: Fashion Week in NYC. This delightful event happens twice a year and is the time when designers the world over are invited to the Big Apple to showcase their spring and fall collections. You know, the clothing that 99.9875 percent of the world's people either:
A. Can't afford
B. Wouldn't be caught dead in if you promised them lots of sex and candy with Justin Timberlake.
Still, as fashion hep cats the globe over keep telling us: "Eets not about reality, dahlink; eets about fantasy."
Uh, yeah. I fantasize I look like this ALL THE TIME:
And before y'all go all, "Well, fashion is ruled by gay men having a big ol' guffaw at our – literal – expense." know this. This outfit was designed by none other than Vera Wang. Vera Wang, Party People. She of the lovely, ethereal, floaty wedding dresses that everyone from God on down wants to wear in their nuptials. So I simply do not know what prompted her to so brutally relieve her Park Avenue penthouse apartment of its drapery and fashion them into dresses that not even maiden aunts would wear if you promised them sex and candy with Sean Connery.
This is what a shiny dress should look like, Party People:
Like you're Wonder Woman and just finished kicking some serious al-qaeda ass and now you're off to cocktail hour at the Four Seasons with Bruce Willis.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. The math thing.
Okay, so I'm not actually in NYC attending this faboo event. Pity, yes, but so it goes. Thankfully, however, I do have Fashion Television in HD, which covers the event pretty much 24/7. And I get additional reportage from the Fug Girls, my bestest cyberspace girlfriends and kindred spirits when it comes to the high waisted pants trend.
So the Fug Girls get to negotiate the tents scouting out Demi Moore and Sean-Whatever-He-Calls-Himself-Now-Combs (because if there's anything that Fashion Week is really all about, it's about celebrity sightings –
you know the .785 percent of folk who actually can afford this stuff), and I get to watch it from the comfort of my sofa munching on Cheetos, sipping Fresca, and wearing frayed yoga pants and a pilling fleece pullover.
And wonder at yet another irony of it all (here's where the math comes in): Here I am, sitting in a room which is rapidly cooling because of the onslaught of fall, but I'm looking at fashions that won't hit the stores until spring. That's a full six months from now!
I'm only just now considering sweaters and boots and scarves. How am I supposed to also juggle the possibilities of next year's flirty skirts and safari-style day dresses? Much less calculate just how much it's all going to cost me once I get there? No wonder these fashion-celebrity-type people are so addled. Not only do their jet setting ways mess with their circadian rhythms, they don't even know what season it is.
Well, except for this one: