It's already Day 7 of Fashion Week, and we're starting to wonder exactly why we're still here. Because as much as we've enjoyed admiring the view here from the second row,** we're starting to get just a little bit tired of all the familiar, washed-up reality stars holding court in the V.I.P. section.

Example: Aubrey from Danity Kane holding court at Bryant Park.

You know Aubrey O'Day, right? The cute one from Diddy's second (or was it third?) attempt at Making The Band. Except now that we've seen her close up at Twinkle, we've realized she's not even that cute in person. In fact, she's actually kind of uncute. And, based on these pics from her birthday party, she's even in danger of becoming the next Tara Reid.

But anyway, there she was right in front of us, and since we don't care all that much about clothes, we had nothing to do but marvel about how this person whom we've barely even heard of (but who is still exponentially more well-known than we are) is actually looking rather wretched.

And then we wondered whether we were having some sort of accidental epiphany.

'Could it be?' we wondered, 'that this is what happens when you get up close and personal with a slightly-famous, arguably recognizable celeb? Can we extrapolate, and assume that all those women we always thought were so beautiful and glamorous are really just a testament to the innovations of makeup and special effects? Is it possible that everything we thought was beautiful is really just some sort of culturally projected manifestation, created by the demands of a celebrity-starved public and a myriad of self-serving media—nope, wait a sec, there goes one of the models and she's undeniably gorgeous.'

**Sigh.**

And in the fragile aftermath of our temporary existential crisis, we were caught up in the shitshow that was Heatherette, (is that Aubrey again? WTF?) mesmerized by the pretty—though unwearable—clothes, and fascinated by the ever-expanding crowds of people who wouldn't even make it inside the tents to witness two flamboyantly gay men retell the story of The Wizard of Oz using only washed-up socialites, lesbian divorcees and crotchless pants.

Of course, it wasn't until the next day that we'd all discover Paris Hilton had done one too many tequila shots the night before to even make it down the runway.

But, while everyone else threw a fit over being denied entrance to the show, we had our second epiphany of the week. And suddenly, everything we'd seen/heard so far all made sense.

Fashion Week isn't about the clothes, the celebrities or even the complimentary gift bags. It's about using juvenile exclusionary tactics to remind everyone that we are not living in a classless society.

And as we sit back in our fourth row seats and look wistfully at those high-society folks occupying rows one, two and three, we're ashamed of ourselves for buying into this whole elitist sham by envying those at the very top.

So, we turn around and look back at the rows behind us, and at all those people who weren't assigned seats all, and we perk up at the minor injustices of the world—and take comfort in knowing that someone, somewhere, is coveting our seat.

Which, undoubtedly, is exactly what was going through Aubrey's mind when she saw us gaping at her throughout the week.

**Okaaaay. Fine. The fourth row.