NYFW: A Rant

You guessed it: I'm about to unleash my opinions (again). Even though I've departed from the Big Apple, my heart was there this past week. Until it was stomped on and thrown out like an empty jello shot at a fraternity party. You wake up one morning, sticky and head pounding, and you hate yourself and everything you have become. At the close of NYFW, I felt like something had gone tragically wrong with my life choices. Enter in self-doubt, lack of enthusiasm, and a deep dislike for my former interests.

Let me begin by saying that fashion week used to, to me at least, be an exciting time of the year when I could push the boundaries in my own wardrobe, as well as gain inspiration from everyone else on the street who was doing the same.

Used to be.

Every collection that is captioned as being "ultimately wearable" and "classic pieces" makes me want to jump off the Chrysler building. If I see one more androgynous model with slicked-back hair in an oversized, frumpy navy blazer, I'm going to vomit all over everyone. What is this, 1994? Come on, New York, I thought we had progressed passed the Chandler Bing sweatervest stage.

I used to wake up at the asscrack of dawn to see the new runway photos hit Style.com. I used to get excited. I used to care. The outlandish and fantastic has now been replaced by the ready-to-hit-the-shelves practicality of a middle aged housewife who just bought her first pair of low-rise jeans at Chico's. It's depressing.

Where is the imagination anymore? I've become increasingly disillusioned with the fashion industry that I fell in love with years ago. That passion, that drive, that demand for the ever-changing, ever new... it's dead, and fast fashion killed it. Silver bullet through the heart of the business that I committed my life and career to. Something's gotta change. I want a revolution. We deserve a revolution. Normcore must die.