I want to tell you about my worst self. Actually, about the "worst self" of every New York City woman who likes expensive clothes.
Every year, in a warehouse in Chelsea, women drag giant plastic bags of designer clothes around on the floor, grabbing everything single things they can (one size up or down? NO PROBLEM), stripping down to their bras and underpants in a wall-less, unisex room, with a crazed look in their eyes. It is called the Barney's Warehouse Sale. Which essentially means free clothes. My shopping partner and dear friend tried to remind me that "these clothes aren't free, they are just really cheap" to which I simply snarled. No words, just a low growl that I had never heard come out of my mouth ever before.
This is how I came to stand in public wearing nothing but socks, wonder woman undies and a mismatch bra and scream at my dear friend Seth (who proved his loyalty and devotion by being there in the first place) to GET THOSE JEANS, NO THOSE JEANS. THE FIFTEEN DOLLAR ACNE ONES. And then lapse into silent rage.... get them now. Seth, the dear, tried to remind me that "these clothes aren't free, they are just really cheap" while I was digging through the knitwear--to which I simply snarled. No words, just a low growl that I had never heard come out of my mouth ever before.
It is the Where the Wild Things Are of shopping. It is Mardi Gras and Carnival and the Fourth of July, but crueler and without music and dance or barbeque. It is the kind of place where you walk out sweating and with your hair messed up and with five (!) pairs (!) of designer denim, two pairs of shoes and five shirts, only 250 USD poorer for it. Because, Emi, you were in the trenches. And in your secret heart, you know that if the real depression comes, you might have to sell apples, but youwill sell those apples in cute ass clothes.
And no one will ever know, as you strut to work in new Costume National heels, a Nanette Lepore cardigan and your new Acne jeans that securing them meant you no longer have any pride or shame. But you look so damn cute, you really don't care at all, not one damn bit. You'd do it again tomorrow if you weren't still recovering from it all. In fact, you really just want to holler your new mantra at anyone who might know the truth: