An Austinite might understand it this way: Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week is a lot like SXSW — except you have to look good. The days are long, the nights are longer, you exist off of a grid schedule outlining what shows you want to see when and where. And to ensure entrance into said shows, you spend the weeks prior hustling for invites and pleading via RSVPs.

It is no walk in the park. People spend their summer training for the spring/summer shows of September (or their holiday season prepping for the fall/winter shows of February), running drills in sky-high heels while studying up-and-coming designers or reserving all interest for the upper echelon of fashion that only the most tenacious or most connected can see in the flesh.

Street style bloggers and fashion journalists station outside the tents at New York's Lincoln Center, waiting in rows to catch the man or woman who will ignite a wildfire of clicks on their websites for their chic or unique look. Where the clean, streamlined looks of editor Zanna Rossi Roberts, socialite Olivia Palermo, and off-duty models cover the home pages of Elle and New York Times, the Facehunter and the Sartorialist zone in on the sometimes wacky, dramatic self-presentations of self-made fashionistas.

To survive the week, one needs a strong dose of self confidence and a thick skin. As a non-Vogue attendee, you will be rerouted at check-in, you will have to identify your affiliation so many times you'll wish it were tattooed on your forehead, you'll ask repeatedly for directions, and in weak moments, you might feel a bit out of your league and ask yourself if you're falling victim to consumerism by carrying two pairs of shoes in your bag and lusting after wardrobe you'll never afford.

But if you take a deep breath and larger look at the entire production to see the melding of so many disparate demographics in one place all in the name of expression (whether inside or outside of the tents), you'll feel a bit stunned by its magnitude.

And when the music starts reverberating throughout your chest, the lights dim and the models walk out — it's art. The hustle, the blisters, and the waiting in line is all worth the inconvenience when you play witness to the presentation of an idea, concept or collection that one person has pored over for many months or, in some cases, a lifetime.

Perhaps if you're like me, you'll be relieved you don't have to compete on that trendsetting stage fulltime. Rather, if you have some distance, you're able draw from it.

You'll take that one moment of perfect harmony back with you to wherever you came from, and you hope you'll find a way to channel that energy and devotion into something in your own right.

That's the unadulterated joy of Fashion Week as a nobody.