Fashion Is About Privilege

I've become sort of obsessed with fashion. It takes a hold of the strongest parts of me and bows them to it's command.

I watch runway shows and stare at the frighteningly stick-like models wishing, with every part of my heart and my being, that I could be that . . . that I could be there. If only for one moment, to experience what it feels like . . . all eyes on you. The privelege.

I scan through pages of marc jacobs purses and paul & joe dresses and christian louboutin shoes, wishing I could know what it feels like . . . draped in such splendor. The privilege.

It's a privilege to be thin enough to fit into the most coveted fashions, right?
It's a privilege to witness the most coveted runway shows, to get the bags full of swag, to double kiss the cheeks of the rich and well-dressed, right?

Sometimes I think about it until it makes me sick inside.

And I love fashion. I do. I love being able to look good, feel good in the clothes I wear. I love reading the magazines and blogs and watching the runway shows.

I just wish I could be closer to the action, yes.
But without sorrow, there is no joy.
Without tears, there is no laughter.

Everything loses it's splendor without privelege.
We wouldn't want it so much if we could all have it.