Leandra Medine's Blog, page 707

Fall Promises We Make (and Break)

Ah, Autumn. I can almost smell it — the only season wherein Manhattan’s oxygen supply seems suitable for breathing. The seasons will officially change next week as the equinox breezes in to wash off the sticky grime of summer, and possibilities for newness will linger on the crisp air and changing leaves that ultimately fall from their branches to be trampled by — er — winter.

I’m talking about your Fall Promises, people. Similar to the New Year’s Resolution, Fall Promises are the oaths we make with ourselves under the intoxicating pretense of new beginnings. Common examples include but are not limited to:

1. I will not eat peanut butter out of the jar past 5 PM.

2. I will stop pretending that my decision to go commando is intentional, and start doing laundry more often. 

3.  I will lift “War and Peace” and possibly even read it.

Like New Years Resolutions, Fall Promises are meant to be broken – unless, of course, you vow to spend 50% of your paycheck on extra toppings at 16 Handles in which case, fill me up. I speak for myself and every woman I know on a phone-call-from-the-toilet-seat-basis when I say that despite our inability to uphold our annual promises, we continue to make them. Because, the air.

So this year, as the temperature begins to cool and the Zara on Prince street stocks its shelves with white trainers and cable knit turtlenecks, I’m once again inspired to craft said resolutions. Here’s the thing though, they’re always the same. Unlike those surrounding December 31st, Fall Promises almost always revolve around my wardrobe.

Here are the ten pre-Official-Fall promises I promise to break come Fall:

1. I promise to invest in ONE good, warm jacket, rather then layering H&M sweater upon H&M sweater once February comes whooshing in.

2. Quality over Quantity! This refers to: leather pants, white/heather grey T-shirts, and black booties.

3. I WILL NOT get those rain boots “next year.” This WILL NOT be “the last day it snows.” My mother WILL always be right. My promise: buy rain boots now.

4. I vow to incorporate at least one mini and one maxi length skirt into my winter wardrobe.

5. I promise to restock my 3-year old stash of black opaque tights with gaping holes in the crotch.

6. Come October, I will finally get an expensive haircut. The shaggy shoulder length one with side-swept bangs.

7. I will not buy penny loafers. This is not a good look for me.

8. I will not be duped into spending my savings on tempting post-Labor Day sales: white linen is not a transitional fabric and I will not wear that dress come winter.

9. I will shave my legs once a month regardless of their hibernating under countless layers, if only for the sake of the man who shares my bed.

10. I will keep all aforementioned Fall Promises via a pact with someone close to me; a person who, should I break one, will execute the punishment of a shaggy shoulder length haircut with the side-swept bangs, for free.

Am I alone in my inability to keep said promises or furthermore, in my making of them? Tell me. Tell yourself.

I’ll help you out with your first one: don’t let friends cut your hair.

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Image on the left shot by Silja Magg, image on the right shot by Sofia Sanchez for Lula Magazine

The Chatroom: Rashida Jones

We’re back with round 2 of the Chatroom — a group chat so great that no one gets charged international fees despite one person having an out of network phone. NARS and their new Audacious lipstick hooked it up to help us get this TV dinner delivered straight to your lap, which is great because my own mouth is more or less a big red thesaurus just waiting to say multi-syllable words.

The series kicked a shoe off last week with Jenna Lyons – a woman who embodies what it means to be an icon: style, intelligence, wit. Where wit is concerned this week (and it’s very concerned, as in a furrowed brow/pursed lips-concerned), there is no match like Rashida Jones. She’s so quick you couldn’t catch her with a That’s What She Said joke if you tried. And man oh man did I try.

Watch the above and tell me: have you ever seen a woman deadpan with such flat-mouthed grace? I’m just not sure what makes her look better, though. That purple Angela all up on her lips, or my really, really bad joke. Let’s go with the former.

That’s what we said!

Still no, huh? Fine.

Next up: HAIM, the band.

This series is sponsored by NARS

Richard Nicoll, Sibling, Preen and Topshop in a Sentence

But not one sentence — four! Because that’s what we do best: minimize the impressively copious months of preparation and brain power to but one measly — albeit complex and creatively punctuated — sentence. On tap today is the first half of one short London Fashion Week featuring:

Richard Nicoll — who got the elevated sportswear memo, took it very seriously and coupled it with a fairly generous nod to transparent sleeves and skirts, tees and dresses, who also saw some opportunity in the gingham department and splashed the picnic paraphernalia across one such cut out jumpsuit and a couple additional sets; you should also know there were some excellent ankle length coats which appeared in a muted pastel color palette that encompassed the collection across the purple to grey spectrum, including nude and blue because, hey, Nicoll is hospitable.

Meanwhile, Sibling brought the fun to London Fashfun Week, moonlighting as the girl you hope never to get stuck behind at a show (cue the giant head bows), building cakes out of knits and calling them skirts, disregarding the length of a shoulder de facto to recreate one that might fit Shaquille O’Neal and posing three questions that likely demand one answer: how important are shirts, how important are bottoms and should you wear either?

Black, white and olympic all over — that’s the sense that Preen by Thornton Bregazzi provoked, anyway, with its selection of bodycon minis, one particular cable knit sweater that doesn’t just say, but screams, “Yo, Leandra!” and a tasteful selection of beads that create layers of fringe, leading one to wonder if this is precisely the intersection where sportswear and that which is endemically “tribal” meet.

And as for Topshop — I think an Instagram caption posted by, uh, me earlier today said it best when it insinuated that early on in the collection, the high street brand wanted you to think that it was taking you through one more sportswear motion with its tennis skirts and wind-breaker style jackets, knit sweaters and bathing suit bottoms but then surprised with a graduating progression, displaying off the shoulder tops with ruffle trim at belly-button length, in some instances paired with matching skirts, and streamlined peacoats and then the bravado: sheer dresses, both black and white, embellished as if to say: I’m heeeeeere!

Richard Nicholl, Sibling, Preen and Topshop in A Sentence

But not one sentence — four! Because that’s what we do best: minimize the impressively copious months of preparation and brain power to but one measly — albeit complex and creatively punctuated — sentence. On tap today is the first half of one short London Fashion Week featuring:

Richard Nicholl — who got the elevated sportswear memo, took it very seriously and coupled it with a fairly generous nod to transparent sleeves and skirts, tees and dresses, who also saw some opportunity in the gingham department and splashed the picnic paraphernalia across one such cut out jumpsuit and a couple additional sets; you should also know there were some excellent ankle length coats, which appeared in a muted pastel color palette that encompassed the collection across the purple to grey spectrum, including nude and blue because, hey, Nicholl is hopsitable.

Meanwhile, Sibling brought the fun to London Fashfun Week, moonlighting as the girl you hope never to get left stuck behind at a show (cue the giant head bows), building cakes out of knits and calling them skirts, disregarding the length of a shoulder de facto to recreate one that might fit Shaquille O’Neal and posing three questions that likely demand one answer: how important are shirts, how important are bottoms and should you wear either?

Black, while and olympic all over — that’s the sense that Preen by Thornton Bregazzi provoked, anyway, with its selection of bodycon minis, one particular cable knit sweater that not just says but screams, “Yo, Leandra!” and a tasteful selection of beads that create layers of fringe, leading one to wonder if this is precisely the intersection where sportswear and that which is endemically tribal meet.

And as for Topshop — I think an Instagram caption posted by, uh, me earlier today said it best when it insinuated that early on in the collection, the high street brand wanted you to think that it was taking you through one more sportswear motion with its tennis skirts and wind-breaker style jackets, knit sweaters and bathing suit bottoms but then surprised with a graduating progression, displaying off the shoulder tops with ruffle trim at belly-button length, in some instances paired with matching skirts, and streamlined peacoats and then the bravado: sheer dresses, both black and white, embellished as if to say: I’m heeeeeere!

In Front of the Pink House at Marc Jacobs

“What if I don’t get it?”

This was my first thought before Marc Jacobs. The designer is known for making big statements with big production, and while his clothes never come second to set design they are typically required to exist and tell a story in tandem.

It always means something. Remember when Super Mario clouds hung low over the front-row-only seats? Or the season before that, when Nicole Phelps described the set as a “bombed-out beach”? But I wasn’t there. I’d never seen a Marc show in person until last night. I was intimidated. What if I didn’t get it?

The mental note-taking started immediately: there is pink, plush shag carpeting covering the stadium-style seating; there is a giant pink house in the middle of the room. Cue anxiety — I should immediately recognize the symbolism: Our house…in the middle of the street? No, too kitchy. But the carpet’s kitchy. Is this a commentary on kitch? Just find your seat.

With every seat came a set of headphones and no instructions other than common sense. I stared again at the pink house. Bubblegum? Barbie? Pleasantville, USA? 

There was something sterile about the gravel surrounding it. This wasn’t a perfect little home — no white picket fence, no freshly cut lawn. No mailbox, no sign of life. No windows. With the headphones locked over my ears and loud violins that began to play, I felt claustrophobic.

As the models trudged out a voice started speaking as though it had been auto-tuned through a filter to make a human’s voice sound robotic. The girls were in military gear, their walk was a march, and this strange voice started giving even stranger commands.

He wanted one of the girls to go into the bedroom upstairs. “Jump on the bed,” he said. It was a lot of “do this, do that.” He never referred to them as women, always “the girls,” and a few were specified by their looks: “the one with the gap between her teeth.”

The clothes were good, that part I knew. But Lynn Yaeger sat in front of me, and she’s a writer; I wanted to know what she was thinking. I leaned forward to peek like I was cheating on a test. She covered her paper. I slinked back.

The clothes can’t be described any more eloquently than Leandra’s morning review. She pointed to the military theme, commented on the whimsy, and described the “utilitarian pockets” as “delicately frivolous ornaments.” She wrote that it was a collection of “smart clothes.” This I saw with my own eyes, and I agree.

But what I felt was unease. Something wasn’t right. Who were these girls? Were they part of the army or inside the windowless house? Was the army protecting them, or was it surrounding them? Over the past few months the topic of war has been especially top of mind. Themes of militia were apparent here, and perhaps war’s effect on society, but what exactly was Marc saying?

What was it that I didn’t get?

That we live in a pink gum-bubble of false security? Or is the pink a filter – an optical euphemism for shading that which we don’t want to clearly see?

I wish I’d recorded the voice. There was something I must have missed. All I know is that the best shows are supposed to leave you with a feeling that lingers.

Images via Style.com

Day in the Life During NYFW

6:56AM: I finally wake up after about 14 alarms of robot sounds, then take a cold shower and start compositing a feature image for Leandra’s morning review.

7:45AM: I’m wearing one shoe. Everything else I own is on the floor. I can’t see the floor anymore. I decide to layer a whole bunch of shit, because the projected forecast is hot sweaty so naturally I gravitate toward long sleeves. My roommate says that I look like a Japanese school girl, therefore I think, “Cool!!!”

10:00AM: I briefly stop at the office and then head to Sant Ambroeus to deliver the Man Repeller plate I made for an art series curated by the stylish Alireza. André Leon Talley is there wearing his typical uniform of a magnificent cape. I eat a delicious breakfast and desert, because chocolate in the morning is never a bad idea.

11:21AM: On my way back from the bathroom I hear a voice bellow, “You! Come over here.” It’s André. He dramatically gestures as he asks, “Who are you and what are you wearing?” proceeding to pick apart my outfit piece by piece. He then introduces me to his brunch mate Whoopi, as is Whoopi Goldberg (23$@%$^*~!!) and I may be more excited to see her than to see him. I feel like a doll in some surreal dream as they fawn over me the same way your great Aunt Marge would at a cousin’s wedding. We chatted for a bit. André referred to my outfit as a “wonderful fashion moment” and Whoopi said the material of my dress resembled the “way a bubble reflects light.” I should probably stop my day here. It is MADE.

12:00 ish: I hustle to Hood by Air. Everyone is insanely hip and wearing black. I spot an old friend who got the memo and sports dark lipstick and sneakers. Now I feel like I’m dressed for a tea party on the Upper East Side. Shayne Oliver’s collection is subversive and dark per usual, we see a model on crutches, a great dane, a live choir and it’s all awesomely exciting. Hats off to him for being so weird.

1:00 ish: DKNY is fun and fresh. The models bounce around to a loud pulsating beat and the styling confirms that stripes and braids really are all the rage for spring ’15. Outside, the fashion paparazzi go nuts and I accidentally photobomb a lot of pictures of models hugging as I try to escape from all the hullabaloo.

1:45PM: I race back to the office to make sure everything is set for the Ostwald Helgason review that’s slated to go up at 2:30. I rapidly save and caption images, make a collage, and do a quick once over.

2:30PM: Boom! It’s live! I breathe, but only for a second because 3 more reviews are going up later. Brb, gotta stalk the Internet for photos.

4:45PM: The door opens — it’s Amelia! I talk at her a mile a minute realizing I have only been conversing with myself for the past few hours. We discuss content for the following day and I begin to prep imagery.

6:02PM: Amelia departs for Edun and I hammer out some thoughts on what I saw today while I wait for images to be posted that I can throw into the evening review.

7:44PM: The review is live! Going to finish my piece and then meet a friend for dinner.

7:51PM: I get an e-mail from Leandra asking who can cover the Opening Ceremony show, which is actually a one act play written by Spike Jonze and Jonah Hill. I happily oblige and then quickly stand up to make my way there, but realize I may keel over since I forgot to eat in between breakfast and now.

8:16PM: I am at Chipotle. I look more out of place here than I did at Hood by Air. My Southern California roots shame me for eating at a Mexican chain, but I have no regrets… except for the fact I could barely make a dent in my burrito bowl before running out the door.

8:33PM: In a cab. I smell like onions. Oh no. What if Spike Jonze falls in love with me from a far but then gets a whiff and runs the other way? Do I have time to get gum?

8:53PM: I’m here. I didn’t have time to get gum. I quietly read the program and try not to breathe on anyone.

9:08PM: The curtains part revealing that the risers we sit on are actually situated in the backstage area of the Metropolitan Opera, physically positioning us behind the scenes as we now face the front of the house. The audience emits a collective gasp.

9:09PM- 9:45PM: I love Opening Ceremony for taking a risk, letting creative people in a completely different medium take charge of their fashion show, and most of all for being able to laugh at themselves. The performance is a full blown satire poking fun at fashion but smartly allows us to get a good look at the collection, which from where I’m sitting looks pretty damn good.

9:47PM: The show closes with the cast belting out Drake’s “Hold on We’re Going Home.” The final part of the performance entails that we walk through the Met Opera to exit. After staring at the clothes on stage we can now interact with them on the way out. I go to congratulate a friend on her performance and in doing so trip over a cord and step on Spike Jonze. Oops.

10:24PM: I’m in a cab. I didn’t have the heart to tell the driver we were going all the way to Brooklyn so he’s going to drop me downtown by the train. Should I go to the OC party? Oh, there’s Whole Foods. I need groceries. “Sir, can you pull over here?”

10:47PM: I have aimlessly wandered around Whole Foods for 20 minutes now. It’s closing at 11. I am not hungry. I leave with a Kombucha.

11:06PM: I am in cab numero dos. I’ve nixed the idea of the party.

12:11AM: Finally in bed. By some miracle, my Apple TV decided to start working again so I am half watching “The Cosmos” while editing my story and eating the overly sweet Karlie Kloss “Kookie” from the OC gift bag. I wonder if there are some weird-ass Freaky Friday powers in this cookie and tomorrow I will wake up transformed into Karlie. We’ll see in the morning.

10 Things We Learned From NYFW

You can either laugh or cry, but New York Fashion Week is over. It was 7 straight days of clothes, models, cabs and information, which can be a lot to take in if you have a life outside of stalking the Internet for updates. (You might not — Leandra watched Marc Jacobs from the airport in LA and I’ve been sleep-scrolling through Style.com.) Still, you probably missed some good stuff. There’s no quiz but this may be on the final, so here are your SparkNotes for the week:

1. The hairstyle equivalent of the word “fetch” tried its hand at happening yet again, executed in a fresh way (read: messy) at Coach. Try it now by parting your hair dramatically on one side, swooping the front part across your forehead and behind your ear then clipping the whole thing together with sunglasses as opposed to a barrette.

2. Don’t panic about the year 2000 just yet because Spring is going 1960s-strong.

3. Guess what, the 70s will be too. (And if it looks anything like Derek Lam’s interpretation, it’s going to be double-hand-praise-emoji good.)

4. Your grandma’s wallpaper is having a MOMENT.

5. We used the word “cool” approximately 35678 times. Whoever tracked an actual tally of that number wins half of my everything bagel.

6. Creatures of the Wind declared, “LET THERE BE STRIPES,” and everyone else was like, “Hey great! We did stripes too!”

7. The iPhone store was the hottest dayclub in town and iced coffee was the hottest accessory.

8. Tie something, ANYTHING, around your waist immediately, or else it won’t feel like spring once May hits.

9. Designers like Altuzarra, Jason Wu, Calvin Klein reminded us that showing new collections can be about beautiful technique and (per Leandra) “calculated restraint” as opposed to reinventing the wheel. Meanwhile Prabal Gurung, Thom Browne and Marc Jacobs proved that it’s also still fun to put on a capital-s Show.

10. Finally, if there’s anything we said, heard or spoke more than c-o-o-l, it’s our new favorite word combination: “Elevated sportswear.”

Now what did you learn? And can I borrow your notes before London?

Image shot by Krista Anna Lewis

Marc Jacobs as Seen Through a Screen

I had to fly to LA on Thursday morning and as a result missed the week’s heavy weights storm out like lions to close the annual spring season in New York. Let me tell you — it was a shame, truly, to feel so disconnected from the safari-inclined sets that could have looked perfect on Annie Hall had she abandoned her aptitude for business-casual auto-outfitting and the white suits that looked like a prim alternative to the spectacularly quotidian duds of one devastatingly French Jane Birkin at Ralph Lauren.

And to watch such a slickly executed take on the definition of modern dressing at Calvin Klein from an iPhone screen? Heart breaking! (I’m being dramatic, but really!) No one — especially the X-Pro and Lo-Fi filterers — understands the value of a marriage between navy and black, or white and ivory quite like Francisco Costa does.

It was when I got back to the airport on Thursday evening to begin the second and last leg of this day-long air trip that I sat down with Marc Jacobs (the show, not the person) and thought to myself: that is smart. To have a theme that has been running deep through the veins of fashion for the greater half of this part of the aughts and to not adhere to it but effectively turn it on its head, to nip it in the bud and reinterpret it, can be the work of only a sincerely adroit artist.

This isn’t even taking into account the deft makeup routine, or lack thereof; Jacobs’ girls, with the help of Francois Nars, wore nothing but moisturizer beneath their black banged wigs. That’s Karlie Kloss, Hilary Rhoda, Gigi Hadid, Kendall Jenner and so forth, effectively naked from the neck up. And why shouldn’t they be?

But we’ve already expounded upon the multifarious reasons it’s okay to not wear makeup.

Let’s talk smart clothes.

An undistinguished army jacket — whether of the cargo variety or largely militarized would have been easy. It would have built upon what Rodarte beautifully and successfully sought out to do: make normal clothes especially extraordinary. But this is not the way of Marc Jacobs, who considered sweatshirt sleeves as elbow-length gloves (for spring? Why not!), military jackets as peacoats (both cropped and not) and utilitarian pockets as delicately frivolous ornaments, which were set upon blouses, robust mini skirts and jackets. And that he was able to do it remaining largely honest to the signature quirks he’s long established for the Marc Jacobs brand — cue the loose sleeves, large, rounded studs and short shift dresses designed with a certain whimsy to them — is another salient coup.

This rhetoric is to canvass only one initial point, though: that I wasn’t at the show. But if my reaction was this visceral, this aspirationally reflective of the genius that flourishes among the upper echelons of fashion, one must wonder: is the fashion show really integral to the success of a review? What is the real difference between being there de facto and being there remotely? Forget the livestreams, forget the real time access granted by social media. I am talking about the ability to let your mind take you somewhere from the comfort and fantasy of your vantage point vs. the reality of how far you can go when you’re sitting among the clothes, among the herds of savants purportedly thinking precisely what you want to be thinking but can’t quite muster.

Of course, though, I wasn’t there, so I’ll never really know.

Images via Style.com

The Worlds of Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein

The guests at Ralph Lauren this morning came dressed in honor of the designer and his best-of seasons. To my right: a woman in a Mandarin-collared blouse, to her left, a hacking blazer worn over black lace. On the floor (before it became a runway) was a woman in an Arizona blanket knit talking to a duo — one in a bell-sleeved old-West dress, the other in Americana double-denim.

Together, on mirrored sets of four long rows sat a world of Ralph waiting for the show to begin.

This season’s world was a five star safari. (Cotton cargo pants were the first indication.) Then came the color — a purple vest, a yellow coat, pink trousers, an orange jacket, and everything was grounded in a deep shade of sage. Jewels starting high on the neck dripped down some of the models’ chests, picking up the color of the fabrics in the collection. It was all very glamorous, rooted in a sense of adventure. Elizabeth Taylor as National Velvet came to mind (but only for a second, and only because of the baggy-thighed breeches), while the rest of it was Amelia Earhart meets Lauren Hutton meets satin, and at its core, undeniably Ralph Lauren.

This is a man who designs for his customer: she is self-assured, confident, and knows the styles that suit her. She’ll take one look at the crushed green velvet jacket that appears camouflage-printed under shadowed lighting and say, “Yes.” She might look at the khaki pieces and realize she owns something similar…but that this is better. She will not be one to shy away from drama, and when asked what she’s wearing to an upcoming formal event you won’t blink twice when she tells you, “A gown that looks like a flight suit with pockets, rolled sleeves, a zipper up the middle and one enormous taffeta train.”

Later, in Calvin Klein’s world — the one imagined by Francisco Costa — minimalism came back to the house that put this concept on the clothing map. Fall was a departure from clean lines (erring closer to 90s grunge than the brand’s famous 90s sheaths, and there was more chunk: thick sweaters, thick boots, thick coats, thick shapes). This Spring, Costa streamlined the collection, and despite Klein not being the current designer’s last name, his 31 looks were very Calvin.

The show opened with a slow, pulsing beat. Even louder was the rushing of camera clicks and somehow not the models’ black platformed shoes with plexiglass heels. (The thick-soled shoes were the only heavy thing about this collection.)

When the women made their sharp left turns and headed back toward the panel that separated backstage from us, racer backs carved the fabric between shoulder blades on narrow dresses. Where belts have been secured at the waist at almost every other show so far, at Calvin they sat just one or two inches higher, so that while a woman’s curves weren’t forgotten, they were given a chance to remain ever so ambiguous.

It was, to borrow Calvin’s own word, modern.

The palette was kept simple in silver, blood red, white and navy. But “simple” isn’t easy. Done poorly, “simple” can be boring. This entire collection was a kind of simplicity that can be appreciated from far away, but that the eye will still squint in to catch the fine detailing of micro-meshing, tiny leather perforations, and a fringed tinsel hem on the most beautiful tunic (which you can see squint-free in the slideshow above, worn by Ms. Hanne Gaby Odiele).

“Futuristic” feels like a cliché word to use here…so if anything, let’s call this collection: what’s next.

Images via Style.com

How to Sound Like You’ve Been Going to Shows All Week

Do you ever accidentally lie for no reason? Like, out of panic, with zero intention of being sketchy or even telling the lie in the first place?

I used to lie about having been to a restaurant called Fedora. The first time it happened the lie came out so quickly that I didn’t even realized I’d said, “I love that place.” Once I spoke those words I made a face like this baby, because I was confused about whose sentence had just come out of my mouth:

From there I had to keep lying about it, because if I was honest with one person about my culinary excursions who could possible run into the other people I lied to – and they compared notes – I would look like a big fat liar who didn’t even eat there.

Eventually I just went to the damn restaurant because the whole charade was too stressful.

It’s because of this that I understand how those people on Jimmy Kimmel’s “Lie Witness News” segments fibb. You now know how I am under very little pressure; imagine me under actual pressure with a camera in my face and someone shoving a microphone under my nose about a band with a name that very well could be real. I don’t know! Bands love weird names! And it’s in our human nature to tell white lies.

Let’s flip this to you, again. Should you find yourself in a situation where you accidentally lied about attending a fashion show — maybe you told a teacher you had to attend Rodarte to get out of a test or you told your grandma you were going to Delpozo to find a wedding dress, or there was a really annoying girl who wouldn’t stop bragging and you needed something to say to get her to stop — here are some things you can say to solidify your accidental lie and sound like you’ve been going to shows all week:

1) First of all, complain about your feet then add: “…and I mean, I was wearing flats the whole time!”

2) Lament about the charge your phone has recently been failing to hold. Follow up with, “I let an editor borrow my Mophie. Sigh.”

3) Check street style online in the presence of others and say things like, “I can’t believe I got cut out of that shot,” or, “LOL that’s my elbow.”

4) Frequently comment on how the 70s are back again. Then clarify: “early 70s, though, because we still saw so many nods to 60s Mod.”

5) Say you lost weight from forgetting to eat.

6) Say you gained weight from remembering to eat, then forgetting you ate, then eating again; rinse repeat.

7) Complain about all the traffic up the West Side Highway this week, and how it’s costing you your month’s rent in cabs.

8) Comment on the Instagram accounts of well known fashion veterans and write things like, “SO good seeing you at the show yesterday!” (Be vague as to which show.) “We HAVE to catch up soon, sorry we got cut off by Anna!” Don’t feel weird about this, I do it all the time to Connie Britton and Oprah.

9) Send Snapchats from the back of cabs and caption it, “So exhausted. Need coffee.”

10) Take a selfie of yourself in front of your favorite show on Style.com and post it to Facebook. Hello, the Internet IS Fashion Week. No one else needs to know that you’re attending it without pants.

K, your turn.