This is not a love story. This is not a story of boy meets girl, girl meets boy. This is a story of an unrequited, forbidden love. Well, kind of. This is also a story of heart-break and heart-mend, of closed windows and open doors.
It all started on a brisk October school day, and it was a rough one, except that the AW15 collections have reached my local Holt Renfrew windows. Mercury was in retrograde and my soul was feeling acidic. I had just completed Oliver Twist and needed to go on a grounding walk. Great idea, terrible execution: Bloor Street is far from grounding. I remember the moment quite clearly, yet not the specific date. I had been walking only five minutes with my dismal thoughts when, “Oh, that dress!” Next thing I knew, the hot Holts doorman opened the gates to heaven and I had quickly forgotten every Dickensian sadness (oh the capitalist irony).
I was just looking. I’m always just looking or swatching or trying on and swooning. And that’s exactly what happened. I strutted on over (symbolically strutted, realistically ran) to the handbag section. I mean, it’s right there. It’s like taking a kid to Disneyland, making them stand in line, but not allowing them to go on the rides. HOW CRUEL.
As I browse at all the shoulder candy decadence, I try with all my (very little) might to not drool my way over to the Balenciaga section. If you know me, you know I love the brand like I love Michael Ealy –obsessively. Every season, every runway show, every collection has me floored. Man, if I had won that Powerball…
So of course, my half-assed will power didn’t cease to fail me and I go look. I was just curious to see if any of the new bags came in. But we all know what curiosity did to the cat.
Well, cats have nine lives and I came out of there unscathed, although my wallet took a big blow. She was beautiful, sitting there in all her glory. An indefinable colored suede, is she khaki, army green, brown? According to her tag, she’s beige fauve.
Beige f****** fauve. Like Bambi. She was the Mini City in Beige Fauve and she was great. Diminutive, olive toned, and hairy, she was me in a bag. I ummed and awed as I stared at myself in the mirror, modeling different poses with her until I got sick of myself. The sales lady left me alone with my thoughts and I was confused. Shoulder angel on my right down by 2, shoulder devil on my left up by 8. Ding, ding, ding we have a winner.
Man, was I on a high. And me, the realist who knows for every good feeling, there’s a bad feeling.
Once I got home, that bad feeling kicked in. Buyers Remorse. How could I? The older, rational, responsible one, be so tempted, so impulsive?
Everyone said keep it, but my shoulder angel wouldn’t stfu. “You could pay your tuition,” “you could buy so many other things,” and my personal favorite, “you could go on vacation.” Like go away, no one invited you b****.
Lo and behold, my self-induced guilt had me take her back.
And every day and every night I was ridden with regret. I kid you not, not a day went by without thinking of her. Everyday for three months. I even had (still have) and album dedicated to pictures and screenshots of her.
I felt like I betrayed her. All the outfits we could’ve worn together #FOMO…
Last week, I decided to go back for her. All the SS16 pieces were to drop and I felt it was now or never. Of course, when I walked in all chipper (same gates of heaven, same hot doorman), I felt like a fool when I found out she was gone.
Now, I’ve never felt heartbreak before this moment. Not over an ex-friends, ex-boyfriends, school troubles, personal problems etc. NEVER. I now know what all those books and songs and movies mean. It’s terrible. Heartbreak is real and I feel like an asshole for all those people I’ve put through the same feeling. How the tables have turned.
Ok, this is not the same, this was much worse.
I actually cried a little in the washroom. STFU, I know I’m pathetic.
Defeated, I went home with my head down. I was in a funk for a few days until I got some good news. Surprisingly, I got a stellar mark on my midterm and landed an internship. I was feeling lucky. A firm believer in all things happen in threes (good and bad), I awaited the third good thing and I had a gut feeling.
And I always believe my gut feeling.
I called Holts, was transferred to Yorkdale and spoke to my guardian angel SA, April. Bless her soul, she found the bag.
Well, not the same bag, but the regular sized City. I was kind of gutted, because it’s not what I had my mind set on. And once my mind is set, it’s hard to shake it (I am a Leo after all).
So the next day, I STRUTTED to Yorkdale, tried it on, and with convincing from my BFF (hey coco, thanks girl), I bought the bag. And kept it, too.
What a blessing in disguise because I love her even more. Goes to show when one window display closes, another Holt Renfrew door opens.
This introductory gateway drug may have me well on my way to My Strange Addiction, but I am so in love.
This is a love story. This is a story of girl meets bag, bag gets away, girl wins her back. It’s unconventional, but they lived happily ever after.