
She said to me through a mouth half-full with lox and bagel, "I hear that young people can't find jobs anywhere. But when I look all around this neighborhood, especially this weekend, all I see are young kids with tons of cash. What are these kids moaning about and where is all the money coming from if they can't find work?"
"Oh, what you're seeing is kids on the street putting on a show almost as elaborate as the ones on the runway," I said. "Half of these people don't even have a pot to piss in, they just have nice clothes."
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I, of course, was a part of that grand farce, parading down the sidewalk of the Meat Packing District wearing a collage of designer clothes that retail for nine times what I have in my checking account. Like everyone else, I wanted to be seen this week, to be noticed on the street, to be mistaken as someone famous or special. And so I splurged, as I will often do, on clothes that would broadcast a life of glamour, even though mine is one of backbreaking student debt, eating canned tuna, and paying penalty charges for being late on my phone bill.
But even worse, I knew that there are others struggling much more than me—at least I have a steady gig and a degree. In the midst of Fashion Week, it's easy to forget about all the people who were fighting to make ends meet long before college grads started working at fast food restaurants and protesting for Occupy Wall Street. If and when the middle class pulls itself out of this national economic malaise, those people's situation won't likely change. It'll be swept under the rug. And the thought of that makes the lavish over-the-top pomp of NYFW that I had longed to be a part of curl my innards.

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