To my credit
How did you even manage to do that? ” My startled fiancé made the comment as I clumsily tried to hide a puffy Duty-Free bag housing two fur coats. Yes, we were on our way back to Southeast Asia where the sun shined like it was the day after the Big Bang. Yes, we had just finished a three-week holiday in Northern California where the fashionable pelts would have been more at home.
The fact I had managed to buy fur coats at Duty-Free at 40 percent off at 10 p.m. (deals + deals = minor guilt) was in itself a conversation starter. Second to buying fur coats in frickin’ Goa in the middle of summer. Despite its hefty discount, it still was not in any way a steal.
My cabinet looks like a teddy bear factory because of all the fab faux fur I have collected over the years. There are just so many more choices out there. Want a wooly mammoth coat? They’ve got it in the more intriguing corners of Hong Kong to satisfy your inner sherpa. I have yet to find a faux version of the Margaux Tenenbaum coat. I have faux Dalmatians, boar, fox and leopard, but not that one basic faux mink in sight. That’s what happens to shopaholics: easily distracted.
The soldier on my Amex card was about to spear me. He was waiting to scream the words, “Declined!” Ah, but being a member since 1989 (I was 10) did have its perks. My Amex was now legal, as it had turned 21 in my wallet.
“How many fur coats do you really need?” the Fiancé asked, obviously in agreement with the soldier on my Amex card. The retail high started crashing and I started feeling guilty. “Well, it’s an investment; you don’t really get these deals and these styles anywhere.” I pleaded my case. “I plan to have more snowy winters!” I added huffily. “And it’s still cold in Europe until March.” It didn’t make sense because no one in that conversation was going to Europe any time soon. Fur coat remorse: let’s just add that to Assouline remorse (but it’s books!), Walgreens remorse (I really, really need these electric blankets and 20 bottles of L’Oreal sunless tanners and all the colors of Revlon Lipstain because you know it’s really practical), Whole Foods remorse (buying out the entire tea aisle seemed like a very good idea at that time) and tourist trap remorse (Nacho lip balm, anyone?).
Yes, I have a shopping problem. Again, I blame Dad. According to Tito Rico Tantoco of Rustan’s, my dad has been consistently on their top 10 list of “valued” customers for decades. A hall of famer. He even gets permanent parking in front of Rustan’s. My dad needs to buy an outfit a day. Complete with accessories. He has recently decided to take up residency in Hermès, beating out the pampered Pinay-tais. Unlike him, my shopping problem is a real problem because I don’t really roll with dead presidents.
There are times when I buy something really useless but, at the time, it seems completely vital to my existence. The last example would be a shimmery coral lipstick that seemed like a good idea since you know I was over nude lips like five minutes ago. Plus I didn’t have a tan and I looked really pale.
The great thing about shopping in America is the return policy. You don’t have to live with the product of your base urges. You don’t have to live with the error of your ways. You don’t have to live with shimmery coral lipstick that’s actually more chola than hola.
Of course, after every shopping trip I put everything in a bag and declare, “Baby, we have to go downtown because I have to return these things.”
“We just came from there an hour ago. Why are you returning them already?” he asks with Amex soldier spears in his voice. I look at him with disbelief and say, “I don’t need them!”
“So why did you buy them?”
I look at him like he was Gumby. “Are we really going to have this conversation?”
My problem has also gone digital.
Amazon, Net a Porter, Gilt Groupe (or, as I’d like to call them, Guilt Group): it’s a whole new world. You know how Internet gambling changed the lives of gambling addicts trying to stay away from the neon lights of casinos? Internet shopping is the greatest tease of all. It doesn’t help that I have an iPad and that I’m an insomniac. Buying a Tibi Gown and Cavalli shoes just like that always seems like a great idea at 2 a.m. The shoes look avant-garde and the dress is a steal because Jen Garner wore it at some benefit and it looked great on her. Following in the wake of my Net a Porter bender, I realize that Jen Garner is baduy, really, now that I’m awake and the Cavalli shoes belong to a more fitting godless Jezebel. Returning these mofos becomes a grand ritual. You need to call for a code to return it and go to the post office where you are questioned on what’s inside the box (“Regret,” I’m always tempted to say).
The past few years I’ve decided to concentrate on the classics. The problem is there are so many of them (tan Birkins, YSL Le Smoking jacket, Chanel suit etc.) and being the classics that they are, they also tend to be classically expensive. Every time I try to sneak off to Chanel I try to tell myself I’m going there to buy an investment piece. Something that will last forever. You know, like buying Apple stock. Of course, when I emerge from the store with a neon pink purse made out of neoprene, it’s anything but classic.
One great glitch in our country’s golden pledge to stellar customer service is that they never allow you to return anything. Maybe they were prescient enough to know we are a country of shopaholics. I mean, our entire city is basically a mall. There are too many me’s lurking in Greenbelt 5 looking for a fix. I mean, I end up buying things in Itsie Bitsie simply because the store smells good (Santa Maria Nouvella potpourri voodoo).
Believe me, I am undergoing rehab. I have vaulted all my cards and now perform on a cash-only basis. It’s a constant reminder that I need to live within my means, which is quite black and white on my admonishing and ever-diminishing ATM receipt. By February I will have wiped out all my credit card debt. Somehow the word “Chanel” doesn’t look quite as attractive on an Amex bill.
Kids, words from the unwise: NEVER HAVE CREDIT CARD DEBT. EVER.
I lived with mine for a year and the levels of denial I had paying for those godforsaken minimums led to maximum punishment. The interest rates may be of interest to you! Plus there is no greater stomach-gutting feeling than having any sort of debt. It’s like this leash connected to every bad choice you’ve ever made in your life. I mean, the world almost collapsed because of bad credit. You’d think I’d get the hint by now.
When I receive my Amex bill I always have a moment of silence alone in my walk-in closet. All those smug Louboutin heels, Fendi and Chanel purses seem to laugh at me and say in musical unison: “Sucker!” Yes, I fail to add that I am a purveyor of those screaming mainstream luxe brands to add to my humiliation. If I was more of a Valextra girl it wouldn’t look too bad, I think.
I think of the trips I could have taken if I had never bought the entire S/S ’09 collection of Loubs and Brian Atwood shoes. I mean, really, who the eff was I? I’m C-Lo, not J-Lo.
Okay, this is the point where I know the haters will start poking pins into their voodoo dolls for my shameless materialism. Relax. I still have my humanitarian priorities in order. But in keeping with the spirit of this navel-gazing column, let’s just talk about the bad things for now and focus on my sinner aspect.
My God, I mean, I just kind of gave up smoking; now I realize I have to give up shopping?
Credit cards. Who would have thought they were the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse?
