Clothes Dork

Barbara: The other day, Deb and I took a little road trip down to Buffalo. The impetus was a business meeting with dear Annette (of our latest 3-way), but we couldn’t go all that way without also checking out the local piece de resistance. Nirvana in all its glory: the American outlet mall.

Shopping as it was meant to be: good, assorted, and seemingly endless.

As we told you a long time ago, I’m not much of a shopper and Deb is not much of a “sale” person, but we found ourselves in a perfect storm of opportunity. Mine being that I’d received an unexpected check JUST BEFORE WE LEFT THE HOUSE. Do you hear me, people?! About to walk out the door and a not-insubstantial, completely unaccounted for windfall appears in my mailbox … just in time to wink its sly eye at me and say, “Going to the land of plenty, baby? Well, go for it. You deserve a little indulgence.” (I know, I know, my windfall sounds a little like a cheap whore in a tattered corset. Anyway…)

So there I was amid a veritable cornucopia of women’s wear and I begin the time-honoured pilgrimage enjoyed by many women (and men) everywhere: eye, choose, pile, try on. And all the while I know a sweet, enabling cheque is just burning a hole in my wallet, just begging to help make me gorgeous and happy.

As I pull on the first outfit, I’m fairly daring it to disappointment me. I mean, for once I am karmically ALIGNED to conquer the clothing and return triumphant. But as I stare at my reflection, all I see is a tired, lumpy, misshapen (middle-aged) woman. Um, I am NOT tired, lumpy, or misshapen. At least I wasn’t the last time I looked! But it happened again with the next outfit. And the next one. 

And the next one and the next one and the next one and the next one.

It was as if I’d got caught in an endless dressing room loop of bad Woody Allen impressions. And I was the bad impressionist.

Me, trying to rock my changing room look

S’okay. I blame the clothes and not myself (even if I was the arse who picked the wares).

Deb: There is no possible way in the universe that Barb could be a dork or an arse, least of all a clothes-picking arse. Everything she chose was wonderful and stylish.

But I have the answer to why nothing worked on her. It was just NOT her shopping day.

It happens to everyone. Not to me. Everyone. Not to me.

I have never had a “not my shopping day” day in my entire shopping life.  Would that I did once in a while, says the voice in my husband’s head. I have ALWAYS been blessed with great Shopping Karma. Even way back in the Barbie days. I would go to the store with my Mom and I would concentrate on Barbie Geisha with the black lacquered geisha slippers and removable headpiece or Barbie Picnic with the straw hat and little velvet trimmed straw bag and they would both appear as if from nowhere, last ones on the shelf!

I can be insecure about many things, but never ever my Shopping Karma! I would not do that to something that has been so true to me all these many purchasing years. It has been my stalwart friend.

Yesterday was only a small example of what my Shopping Karma is capable of. This  trip supplied me with not only what I was looking for, but fab fun bonus items too! I have to say that even in my shopokarma haze, I was obsessed with Barb finding something wonderful and kept encouraging her whenever she picked out something lovely and chic.

But ... she just didn’t have the Shopping Karma in her pocket. It happens. Not to me. But it happens. I LOVE new things SO much. I think I give off that scent in the store. I mark my LOVE TO SHOP territory and the merch virtually lands in my lap, just to have a sniff. 

Dirt Cheap

Barbara: I’m not a sucker for sales—it’s not like I can’t pass one by without gorging, BUT…if I need something, say a shirt or a new pair of jeans, there’s something about getting it on sale that turns me into the proverbial rabid dog. 

I feel this inexplicable joy at being able to nab that perfect item—or near-perfect (because, yes, I will throw “perfect” to the wolves if “near-perfect” is good enough and 50% off)—from the sales racks. 

But this is the part that kills me—I can’t leave self-satisfaction alone. If someone notices and/or compliments something I’m wearing, I must share, rejoice, and celebrate my purchase-triumph. Me, breathlessly: “You like it?! Well, this dress was originally $250, but then it was marked down to $120, which was already great, but when I got to the cash, it was only $87!!!!” Even as I hear the exultation pouring from my mouth, I have begun to cringe at the sound of my own joy. It’s so embarrassing. To the poor gal-pal I’ve cornered, I must sound like either a gloating Braggerton or a Cheapie McCheaperton. Why can’t I just say “Thank you” and leave it at that???

Deb: Oh to be you! I would save a fortune! I admire you, I really do. But when I compliment something fabulous on someone and they say they got it on sale, the item is instantly lowered in my estimation. I think, “Clearly something was wrong with it to go so cheaply.” 

When I shop I love to see each piece on its own mannequin––featured and standing proud––saying, “Look at me, I’m brand new and sexy, right off the runway. You need me!”

Sales are so very sad to me. Pieces once so full of promise are now squished and tossed on tables with no regard for seasons or ensemble-looks. “Oh, look a Michael Kors evening jacket!”––yeahbut, COVERED IN DEODORANT STAINS, with FINGERPRINTS and DRESSING ROOM CA-CA on the hem. Poor bastard!

I may have to eat mac and cheese for a solid week, but I’ll stick with my shiny new clothes. They are out there, waiting for me.

Barbara: And I wish I had your commitment! Purely intellectually, I see how it’s good for those creative geniuses who design the clothes and for the tailors and crafts-people who construct them that I save my money in order to spend it wisely in support of the best quality stuff. But my inner-commoner can’t help thinking, “To hell with it, what’s a little dirt and dressing room ca-ca when there’s the gentle-cycle at home and an iron, and it’s ON SALE!!! And anyway, if I don’t buy it, it would only go to that sad, lonely world of Unwanted Clothes where it will die a tragic and unnatural death. I am here to save it from obscurity and ruin!”

I am the Green Peace Warrior of clothing.

… No?

Deb: Yes! 

But I’ve been meaning to tell you that your new half-price linen jacket is missing a button.

Barbara: Shit….