Went shopping for the first time today, at what was supposed to be a reasonably well priced venue. Reasonably Priced turned out to be Prada, Gucci, Armani, amongst other labels bearing names that sounded vaguely French or Italian. Three stories of brands I couldn’t pronounce, much less afford. My goal for the day was to purchase a pair of fuzzy house shoes. Turns out these are hard to come by in the world of high fashion. Mink Coat with matching bag, sure. Slippers, not so much.
I was mildly surprised at my being allowed in several of the stores. Surely the likes of me couldn’t be permitted in the same room as Versace, as confirmed by the shopkeepers analytical glares at what in my opinion was one of my more fashionable outfits. My jeans and sneakers got the once-over from every store. I made my way carefully through the winding rows of designer wares, afraid to touch anything. Some of the stuff was very nearly comical; I received several suspicious looks from shopkeepers after giggling at a particularly horrid green mink number. After several hours of looking at sequined dresses bright enough to blind you, shoes pointy enough to double as weapons, and clothes in spectacular neon shades that make you feel vaguely nauseated (all of which I would have to sell a kidney to afford), my patience was rewarded in the form of a North Face store, whose utilitarian wares made me feel more at home. I practically had to be dragged away.
This is one part of the culture I simply do not understand. For now, I think I’m going to be okay with a comfy pair of jeans, some Chacos, and a nice warm sweater.
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