I know I’m still a novice because upon entering the Mercedes Benz lounge after Carolina Herrera’s stunning presentation, I motored straight to the breakfast bar, loaded my plate with banana nut bread, and ate with such voracious enthusiasm you’d have thought I never knew a Continental buffet until that very moment. Having thus satisfied my boundless appetite I move on to that other feast (for the eyes) at Carolina, Carlos Miele, and Jill Stuart.

Except I need to back-track further and cover the shows I saw yesterday: Thuy, Herve Leger, Diane Von Furstenberg, Custo Barcelona, and Vassilios Kostestos.

Therein lies the problem with Fashion Week: How do I reduce it to a few paragraphs, a handful of trends? Editors have struggled with this dilemma for years so I won’t even attempt to solve the crisis of brevity. And “brevity” is an interesting word choice since each day has seemed a hundred hours long. But who am I to complain? This is the job “a million girls would kill for,” all the while enjoying all the free iced skim lattes my little heart desires at the McDonald’s McCafe pop-up boutique in Bryant Park.

So here, in 160 characters, the length of one Twitter bug, is a recap of my last 48 hours:

Bowl cuts & curls, micro-minis & tea-length skirts. Neutrals & frayed denim. Lavender. Red hair. Raffia. Haven’t paid attention to shoes.

Tonight I hit a panel discussion and party for the Independent Fashion Bloggers with the likes of Jessica Schroeder, Sara Zucker, and many more of New York City’s guerrilla fashionistas.