So this is Fashion (Repost from Open Salon)

Maybe I’m just not into fashion.
The hooped-sheer skirts, the high-stiff collars, the lack of underwear.
Yes, if this is fashion I’m just not into it.
But, I’m not the only one. Most of the puckered lipped, tantrum struck models stomp down the runaway, either twirl in a fit of couture rage or idle languidly before spinning bored and storming or idling back down the runaway, swinging their heads, arching their eyebrows or struggling to appear oblivious to the audience.  I’m not sure what it depends on.
“Maybe this is satire,” I text a friend.
“?” She replies.
The event is a fashion show and silent auction to benefit a local charity sponsored by an organization that the company I work for belongs to.  In my real life, I am a bargain shopper.  Few things make me happier than a 70% off sale.
But tonight I am at a fashion show wondering if I missed the program or the point where it’s explained that the attitude, the boredom, the fashion is a statement against commercialism, capitalism, global warming, anything to make my sitting here worth my time.
After about ten models there is a lull, the bass is still pumping yet no one is strutting.  This is it.  I can slip out of my $50 seat, tiptoe down the thinly carpeted stairs and slide out of the heavy theatre door without causing a disruption (the joy of sitting at the end of the row).  I have fantasized for too long.  The rhythm changes slightly and a less-interested model storms down the runway, another bored, a somewhat quirky, a slightly animated, a slow line of comically dressed models parades one by one down the stage but I can barely notice as people enter and exit and I fantasize about being one of the gone.
If the models don't want to be here, why should I?
There is a lull, again the bass is pumping and no one is strutting—but me.
I leave, not in a twirl of disinterested choreographed attitude, not with a designed nonchalance or a practiced air of boredom but with a joy I can barely contain and don't try too hard to hide.


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