For most fashion editors, the dash between shows goes like this: The mad herd rushes out the door (moo!) as soon as the designer gives his or her obligatory wave and turns to leave the stage at the end of the show. While many fashion shows are mounted at "The Tents" erected at New York City's Bryant Park, some of the most coveted invites are elsewhere, which explains the ever-present fleet of Lincoln Town Cars idling on 41st Street. I'm shocked that Slate hasn't offered me my own chauffeured limo, but luckily, I have friends in the right places. After the tip-tap of little heels down the front steps and across the street we hurled ourselves into a waiting car. The blank stare I received after expressing concern that we would be late for the Marc Jacobs show informed me that we don't have to worry about missing the next presentation. No, the show would not begin until the key guests—i.e., my ride—were in place. And after five-plus shows a day the philosophy is this: Get there and get out so you can go home. Or: Slam, bam, thank you ma'am. (After about age 30, the endless after-parties and the promise of free champagne lose their fizz.)
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