It could be said that most people who move to New York do so for some greater purpose. Perhaps they fantasize about becoming a billionaire stockbroker and scoring a trophy wife, becoming the next Gisele Bundchen, or simply achieving world domination. Personally, I came as many others before me, to work in fashion.
When I first moved to New York, bonuses were aplenty, I got a fresh mani and pedi every week and my wardrobe received a fresh infusion at least once a month. But with the economy tanking faster than a body in the Hudson, our bonuses had all but disappeared and we had gotten across the board pay cuts. Suddenly, my lifestyle went from “effortlessly chic” to “financially aspirational.”
Being broke and working in fashion is like being on a diet and working at Krispy Kreme. This was not part of the plan. So when the annual Stella McCartney sample sale rolled around, I knew I was in for trouble. There’s nothing more a pescetarian fashionista likes more than Stella McCartney’s vegan-friendly designs. Morality and aesthetics in one place is dangerous.
But still, I was lacking in funds thanks to the economy. So I told myself I’m just going to look. It would be research. Scholarly, even.
Once inside, I made a beeline for the shoe section. I inhaled the sweet smell of faux leather and plastic. There were orange fishnet kitten heels, lime platforms with acrylic, pink and black criss-cross sandals, and gray basketweave heels. It was everything I’d ever wanted and absolutely nothing I could afford.
Nothing could be better than this. I felt like a starving person seeing food. Just because I hadn’t planned on buying anything didn’t mean I couldn’t try on a few pairs of shoes. I tried on one pair after another but none of them seemed right. Then I put them on. It was love at first sight. They were 4-inch wood t-strap platforms in a denim blue color. But what really made them was the cherry appliqué. I stared down at my feet, which were now glowing.
I walked over to the mirror to get a better look. As I stared at my reflection, I began to imagine all the fabulous outfits that would now be complete with the Cherry Bomb shoes. I pictured myself walking to work while rainbows beamed out of me like rays to the sun. People would stop in their tracks and ask themselves who that fabulous vision was. Word of my amazing shoes would travel wide and far across the land. Even to places like New Jersey and Oklahoma.
I snapped out of my reverie. I was going to look amazing in these shoes. Fuck it, I’m going to buy these shoes. I scampered over to the line, eager to buy them.
That’s when it started. The VOICES.
“Um…. you can’t really afford this, even if it is on sale.”
“It’s people like you that are responsible for this shitty economy!”
“Do you want to be broke and stupid?”
“Ahhhh! SHUTUP!” My palms started to sweat. I didn’t want to give them up. I loved my Cherry Bomb shoes. We had bonded. Like the time in first grade when I picked out my favorite doll from Kmart. How could I have given her back after I picked her?
I began to feel like I was in some sort of chick-lit novel. Like Confessions of a Shopholic. Except without the happy ending. Next thing you know I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills and I would be out on the streets. I would start tap dancing in the subway, (Union Square of course), to make some extra cash. I would only eat once a day, allowing me to lose that last five pounds I’ve always wanted to lose. Honestly, not the worst plan.
The line moved forward. I gulped. There were five people in front of me. I took a deep breath and ducked out of the line.
“Oh, I’m just getting another pair!” I would shout out in case anyone asked. I couldn’t let anyone know I actually couldn’t afford the shoes. I glanced around furtively and then pretended to walk confidently back to the shoe section. Were the salespeople looking at me? What about that security guard? as he trained to detect broke people? When the coast was clear I quickly put the shoes back. I hurried out of there shamefully.
When I got home, I knew I needed to drown my sorrows ASAP. How could I call myself a true fashionista? I should have just called it a day and moved back to L.A. where I could wear tracksuits and pretend it was fashion.
But I couldn’t give up on my relationship with New York. Not yet.
I pulled out a tub of low-carb sugar-free ice cream. I didn’t even measure the serving size this time. I’ll show that damn economy. When everything turns around I’m going to buy those shoes at full price, damn it. Or at least on half-price eBay. In the meantime, I still had New York.
**I eventually bought the shoes a year later. They hurt my feet. But at least I was no longer broke.
What’s the craziest thing you ever bought?
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