After experiencing the museum, Montgomery felt different. My class was silent. Nobody cared to crack any jokes. The air even started to smell different — like rotting garbage, reminiscent of the Southern Magnolia that Billie Holiday sung about decades prior.
And so I remain fervently infatuated with the Council for Fashion Designers of America’s official Fashion Week and deeply enchanted by its mystique. I guess you can say it’s a bit of a toxic romance — one-sided, with one party granting the other not even a minute of their time.
