Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Sadie, Sadie, bagged lady.

My dear bosom friends,

On my previous blog "I am here, I am there, I am everywhere" I stated that I wasn't going to daunt you with my recollection of our trip to the ginormous outlet mall.

Well that was a little white lie.
Actually a rainbow lie.
You know, I often start my long-ass anecdotes with the sentence "long-story-short". 
Guess what?
They usually are "short-stories-long". Lingering, extensive solo acts.

Now that that consideration is on the table we may proceed.

The plan was to hit and run the Sawgrass Mill Mall to find an outfit for the upcoming office party, hosted by my hubby's employer. It's going to be my debut into corporate society so I have to look amazing but approachable. Drop dead gorgeous but relatable. Just like a Food Network star. 

Hubby and I have been to this huge shopping center before, with one of his colleagues. As gay guys, accompanying a female to get some shopping done, we only experienced the mall as stylists, personal shoppers with the sole vocation of dressing up our life size Barbie-doll.
So we didn't really have the chance to do some digging for our own closet.
We only made our girl look "ready for date night battle" and left.

This time around we did ourselves justice, even though we ended up getting everything but what we went there for. Isn't it ironic. Not really Alanis.

The drive from Miami downtown to Sawgrass Mill is long. You need to reach suburbia. Stepford wife kind of neighborhood. Living communities embraced by luscious gardens. SUV's only allowed.

For some reason hubby was feeling a bit disoriented that day so the trip to Sawgrass was a slightly tense one.
"The Silence of the Lambs" kind of tense.
I have a "my left is your right" kind of policy when I co-pilot.
Since I am Italian, I respond to traffic-rage with traffic-verbal-rampage. It's a blood bath.

Once the GPS announced that our destination was on the left ( after plenty of "recalculating" and "make a U turn") we felt relieved but we knew that we still had to find parking.
On a Saturday, at an outlet mall, finding parking is as easy as finding Nemo.
After hubby almost drove into a police car patrolling the parking grounds, we decided to valet our un-pimped ride. Juan very kindly took our vehicle to a place where it could rest safely and I will always be grateful to him for that.

Sawgrass Mill Mall is gargantuan. Like a Tower of Babel for shopaholics.
I felt right at home.

When you enter the premises it is like entering a foreign country. A state where the capital is the "high end" designers block and the provinces are the Banana Republics and such.
The official language is Brazilian though.
The Sawgrass Mall in fact attracts a multitude of Brazilians. They love, as much as I do, going there to conquer the land of plenty. A "plenty-ness" of plenty. Plentiful.
They bring their empty suitcases and by the end of their shopping bender those trolleys are as full as I am full of myself.
There were so many Brazilians there that I felt I was right back in Brazil during their Carnival. I swear I heard samba tunes echoing in the background and I had the sudden urge to buy a thong and shake my butt cheeks vigorously.

We decided to have a quick pit stop at the food court and we ended up feeling like we were standing in front of the passport control booths of many countries. China, Mexico, Italy and Japan to be precise.
I opted for a comforting slice of pizza the size of Uruguay.
And a decanter of diet Pepsi.

Now we were ready for combat.

From then on it was all quite blurry.
Like we were on a high caused by some questionable mushrooms. Or like we just took an Ambien.
I could name all the stores we bought a little something from, but the plethora of retailers will only jade you. We all have different fashion-thresholds. I understand.

All you need to know, is that deliverance came only after a full immersion in the Calvin Klein jumbo sized store. Calvin went all out on that one. He actually took the ginormous Time Square billboards and shoved them into the retail space. I saw a model's boobs as big as Nicki Minaj's ass. Coming at you like the Star Trek Enterprise.

When Neiman Marcus Last Call warehouse appeared in front of my delirious eyes I knew my journey to Mecca was eventually over.
I dived into the bags section and became familiar with the habitat like a savvy wild animal. As blood thirsty but with fashion sense.
You must understand that designer bags are my religion.
I found my faith a long time ago and I am not planning to switch to a different holiness provider.
It's a polytheist religion, since I pray to many designer labels and it doesn't demand hell for being  homosexual. My credo welcomes anybody who can afford it, just like a Megachurch.

So, to find a place of worship at a significantly reduced price, was as good as finding the perfect loft apartment at a rent you can afford. In South Beach. You do need a miracle.

I didn't come up for air for a considerable amount of time.
It was intoxicating.
I had a cosmic connection with my purse goddesses and I promise you I saw a blue Lord Ganesha holding clutches and satchels with his many arms.
Hubby had to throw me a life ring in the shape of a credit card ( plastic floats ) to fish me out of that sea of bags and godliness.
Just like Moses was given the Tablets of Stone at the end of his quest, I was given a Fendi bag at the end of mine.
That's my version of the "Land of Milk and Honey". The land of Gucci and Vuitton. Amen.

Ready for battle.
 
I have done some research regarding my label bag cravings but I was not amused by what I found out. To get deeper into the investigation I would have had to admit I had a problem and recite the mandatory "hi my name is...and I am a...I have been sober for...". And there's the anonymity clause. You know I don't do anonymous. My life and me are up for grabs. I let it all rip bosom friends.
Nevertheless you can only admit a problem if you have one.
The only description I kind of identified with, was the one that stated that when we buy expensive bags in a way we buy the envy of other people ( we pay money for a feeling, don't we all? ).
That is quite true. There is a subtle pleasure in having your tote admired and envied. Just like when they admire and envy my gorgeous hubby. But don't forget that I didn't get the hubby and the bags of my dreams because I was lucky. I got them because I always worked hard to get what I desired.
Feel free to judge away in any case. Constructive criticism is welcome.
It's not the topic of right or wrong, it's a question of what you think is good for you.
When "enough becomes enough", is a matter of perspective.

When enough is enough?

Although we regularly curse our shopping habits every time we have to pack and move ( considering the amount of stuff we have accumulated ) it's a life worth living.
Hubby and I pay our bills and we are not in debt.
Just like Donna Summer used to sing we "work hard for the money".
Hubby works hard, I eventually will. No seriously this kept wife arrangement does come with a limited shelf life. Best before I completely go off my rocket. Before this fruit cake becomes a nutty one.

In conclusion ( it was about time you must think... ) we had a crash course in super outlet malls and realized that the Land of Plenty really is a bountiful one. Racks and racks and racks of something you may not need, but that indeed you desire. So as long as you are not spending your groceries allowance or your children's college found on accessories, go ahead and reward yourself.
Life can be a combat sometimes so we better be "dressed to kill". Always.
And if my bag mania should get out of hand I can always
become a "bag lady".

A Chanel "bag lady" nonetheless.

Ciao for now.

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