end of days

Fashion Week Meltdown: We Are Shells of Our Former Selves

Well, gang, we’ve reached the end of the line: day eight of Fashion Week, the final, half-dead cherry on top. How you feelin’? Around here, the caffeine has ceased to have an effect on our ravaged bodies, our digestive systems are rejecting anything that isn’t an LU biscuit, and we burst into tears every time we look at the two blisters on our right foot. Not that we’re whining — we love what we do! But you get exhausted after running a glamorous marathon in heels, y’know? Cue system meltdown.

This morning, one of your Cut editors was in such a state that, while riding the subway, she slowly and inexplicably began to fall — and didn’t even realize she was taking a tumble until people around her started gasping (some might call this a “semi-faint”). Mortifying, but: If you’re not even aware that you’re falling, did it really happen? We’d say no, but the construction worker upon whom she landed would beg to differ.

At least that editor was on the right train. One editor rode the subway in the wrong direction for God knows how long, causing her to miss major shows. And another editor actually started to doze off on a train home from the tents the other night, only to wake up to the flirtations of a strange man with long eyelashes. (Worse, she was just bleary-eyed and delirious enough to flirt back.)

Thankfully editors, in their exhaustion, aren’t required to try and articulate sentences with A-listers — that’s the mandatory duty of a party reporter, and for those brave souls, this week can also get rough. One reporter went up to Tyson Beckford and called him “Tyrese.” Beckford, probably aware that the scribe was fatigued, sympathetically responded, “It’s all good — we’re all black!” And that’s the sort of understanding we need after a week like this. Now can someone please give us another chocolate biscuit?

Fashion Week Meltdown: We Are Shells of Our Former Selves