Fashion week, done.

Yes, it's exciting and quite interesting to see next season’s collections come true.

But what this week does to people in NY! It’s like everyone is suddenly some fashionista photographer or stylist. Oh yeah, everyone is a stylist, I forgot.

And the news feeds, Jesus. If I scrolled by one more catty narcissistic posting of some squirrelly group of girls sharing their thoughts and feelings or basically just showing they are somewhere they had to beg to get into I was gonna puke on their Prada shoes. Been there.

Not that I was completely absent from all the activities, I did partake in a few, but nothing beat our trip to the McQueen party. My boyfriend had never been to anything such as this, so I thought, why not take him, could be fun?

Wrong.

We got ourselves dressed up, street-style ready and marched down to the meatpacking, invitations in hand and ready to do whatever it is these kids do at these things, (Be fabulous?), only to be greeted by a not so fab line around the block of twenty-something girls and girl-boys crying to get in.

I politely asked the door women, who sneered at me, spilling a cocktail in hand and said she doesn't do the list.

I found the girl with the list, equally drunk and showed her our invitations. She burped and pointed to the line.

I soon found out from an actual functioning event employee that they reach capacity 30 minutes after opening the doors.

I turned to Aaron, shyly standing away from the crowd and said, well, we tried.

He was happier to go home then I was.

Fashion for the masses, not the classes.

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