Fashion Week stops for no one, because to do so would be to risk inciting a (practically Zoolander-ian) International Fashion Incident. Literally—if Proenza gives Schoeuler a case of mono and they decide they need an extra week, London, Milan, and Paris do not cheerily throw up their arms and agree to split the difference. There are serious negotiations about this type of thing, and not the kind that conclude with a big round of double-cheek kisses. So my guess is that, eight inches of snow tomorrow night or not, there will be shows on Saturday. If Diane von Furstenberg and the entire CFDA Board of Directors themselves have to get out there and operate snowplows with the Army Corps of Engineers, there will be shows. And at those shows, there will be editors who leap from Town Car to venue in just exactly whatever footwear they would have chosen were the city an not arctic-style disaster zone, because no matter how ethereal and manicured she may appear, a true Fashion Person has the drive and commitment of a Navy SEAL when it comes to not letting the weather get in the way of a look. Personally I always preferred the editors and stylists who managed to work their big old crazy clomping snow boots into some chic but seasonally appropriate outfit—usually just jeans and a sweater and a scarf, and nothing that a trend-crazed street photographer would stop to snap, but unstoppably chic nevertheless.