It was New York Fashion Week day number one million, and I was standing in my closet, nauseous. I was coming down with that sartorial flu where every item of clothing looks exhausted. Not to mention I, too, was exhausted, having stayed out late more nights than I could remember. To make matters worse, I had a show to get to.
It was still hot out, like New York always is in September. I tried on my favorite new slipdress, assuming it would be an easy solution, but for some reason the minty fresh floral frock looked as stale as I did.