Well, it's the very last day of Fashion Week, which is probably just as well since we're already over it.

Of course, that hasn't stopped the celebs (and Vogue staffers) from coming out to pay their final repects to the designers who keep them eternally chic in free-but-otherwise-unaffordable clothes.

We hear French Vogue's EIC Carine Roitfeld just left Eva Scrivo salon on Hudson and Horatio, wearing 4 inch black stilletos and an outrageous stiff and shiny black coat straight out of a dominatrix video. And she seemed, surprisingly, pleasant.

Plus, Nicole Richie and Joel Madden hit Zach Posen yesterday, along with Rachel Bilson, Rihanna and the Anna "Punk'd" Wintour while Theodora Richards merely swept in for the afterparty, (definitely our kind of woman!) Meanwhile, Aisha Taylor, Amber Tamblyn and Michelle Williams flocked to Badgley Mischka, and Molly Shannon and Tim Gunn braved the cold to sit front row at Cynthia Rowley.

Sadly, we haven't seen our girl Aubrey in days, but we have spied the phony Romanian socialites first-hand, and upon second reflection (and, um, that item in today's Page Six), we realized that we actually went to high school with the female "Romanian."

Which makes us feel almost famous by association, and we're riding high until we have an unwelcome blast from the past.

There we were, just minding our business, drinking our complimentary free pink energy drink when we ran into our Bryant Park nemesis: the chubby, muffin-faced gent who stole our coveted front-row seat at Fashion Week last Fall. We'd seen him sporadically throughout the week, (carrying a brightly colored man-purse and cutting to the front of the Standing Room Only line), and now he's stolen our seat AGAIN, this time at the M.A.C. lounge when we left for thirty seconds to grab a refreshing bottle of mineral water.

And as we try to cool our nerves (and our heels) by relaxing with a free beverage at the W. lounge, we heard a rumor that the Olsens had already closed up shop, kicking out all the second-tier fashionistas for their own private tete-a-tete.

Which was, coincidentally, the precise moment we realized that we're ready for this whole crazy week to finally come to an end.

And so, we bid a cheerful adieu to the Tents, and a fond farewell to the unemployed socialites, the D-List celebs, and the far from glamorous port-o-potties, but we pause to take one last lingering look at the Salon.

Because although we're mainly relieved that it's all over, we know it's only a matter of time before we're pining away for the days we rubbed elbows with reality show outcasts and shared a manicurist—and a moment in time—with the lovely Ms. Jay.