Just off the runway, it's Christopher Kane's Fall Collection, so fresh it still has the Getty Images stamp. British Vogue raved about its sexy vibrancy (and the crowded craze of the front row), but all I can think about is this: A college dinner party, weirdly on Valentine's Day. I knew the crowd would be older and cooler, and I would have to try. I pulled a red velvet Betsey Johnson out of my closet, straightened my hair, stole heels. There was black mascara and sparkly lip gloss, and I tried to buy wine but they carded me. Instead I sprinted to Whole Foods and got a $40 chocolate cake. I drove myself off campus and knocked on the door, and when he answered - my "date," even though not really - his face froze. "Holy shit," she gasped, "You're not supposed to be that girl! You're supposed to be the quirky, innocent freshman." Apparently I'd messed up his table casting. The rest of the crowd parted and peered out at me, then burst into faux British accents at the same time. They kept them for the entire meal; my date wore jeans and a patched vintage smoking jacket. I got very drunk and scooted, somehow, into someone else's bed, where I fell asleep alone. My red velvet dress got crushed by the covers and in the morning the mascara turned to war paint. On the nightstand was a note - written in Dry Erase marker on toilet paper - and a huge slice of cake. "You're awesome - sorry you missed dessert." I wore my dress to my dining hall for breakfast because I didn't care - or probably because I did care, because I loved the dress with the shitty meal plan - and the girls at my table squealed "slut!" when I sat down, because they loved it too. That's what rushes to my head when I look at Chris Kane - a little too much, and a little too ready to get crushed and crumpled and dragged back to a drunken party. But what do I know - Manolo Blahnik sat in the front row, and he loved it.