Twice a year we throw ourselves into the Fashion Week Circus around Lincoln Center and other various hubs where designers and their sheep are found flocking. (But like, unique individual sheep. Doin' their own thing. Snowflakes.) We love it we hate it we love it we hate it. Usually it makes us feel pretty bad about our own pedestrian fashion choices... but also, who cares. Those dope outfits are still part of the illusion of materialism, man.
Then we remember that cerulean scene from The Devil Wears Prada. And suddenly fashion seems sort of important again. Meryl Streep is that good.