Dirty Girl
Six years ago — back in the day of the strong dollar and weak euro — my sister and I went on a shopping trip together to Paris. We each ended up buying a Louis Vuitton Petite Bucket bag (which, by the way, I’m shocked to find, is now priced at $790; after the VAT refund I swear we didn’t pay more than $375). In any case, she takes hers back to L.A. and I take mine to New York, and when we see each other again like six months later, mine looks like it’s a vintage item and hers could’ve been right off the store shelf. So my sister’s horrified that I let my things get so dirty and I’m saying it’s not me, it’s my city!
I have enough of a hard time wearing new shoes or handbags for the first time — I’m scared to break anything in. Combine it with life in the grimy city, and the highest level of vigilance is required. Like with my new bag for fall, a dark caramel colored Boston bag by Celine (a.k.a. the Boogie that zips closed).
One, I waited till the first day of fall. Two, I watched the weather forecast every day until I was sure there was 0% chance of rain. And at the end of the very first day I carried it — so carefully, resting it on my sweater-covered arm, to prevent any perfumes or oils on my skin to seep into the virgin leather — what did I discover?
A pen mark??? My heart stopped, my veins ran cold. I racked my brain: Could my bag have gotten marked by an errant pen at the cash register at the hair salon? Did some evil-doer see my shiny new bag and decide to go out of her way to deface it? Was it the man sitting next to me on the subway, who was marking up an OTB form? Where can I report this crime? This crime against fashion? And then this horrific thought occurred to me — oh, a dagger to my heart — was my sister right all along? Am I the only one to blame? I’m cursed!
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November 4th, 2005 09:24
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