Come Sale Away

The timing of the Fred Segal sale always takes me by surprise. “Already?” I ask, when someone casually mentions that F.S. has begun slashing prices by 50%. “I feel like I just went to that.” Then I think about my closet and realize that whatever those got-to-have items were that I procured last year have already been stained, worn too much, never worn or given to Goodwill. (Even on zero budget, I tend to treat my closet the way most people do their vegetable drawer–a doesn’t-look-so-good-anymore-better-toss-to-make-room-for-fresh-goods kind of attitude.

My F.S. routine starts with a first-weekend drive-by: I scan the array of skirts, shirts, dresses, jackets and pants, noting that even at half off, many of these items are the same price as say, a not particularly reliable car. I smile to myself as I watch two perfectly-dressed and tressed Asian women clutching goods and darting to the communal dressing rooms. “Ha!” I think. “Hope you’re happy with your Costume National pants when I come back in a few days and get them for 75% off!”

Because that’s where the exquisite torture really begins. Once Fred’s given everyone a chance at half off, he turns up the volume and prices go to two-thirds off for at least five items. It is a delicious concept for someone like me–someone who cannot rent one movie without renting another, never mind that I only have a half hour. Someone who doesn’t see the point in stopping at Virgin for a CD until I want two, who cannot sit at Lisa Nails unless I have at least three magazines in a stack. My philosophy is very much why get anything unless you get at least one more?

The beauty of Fred’s arrangement is, of course, that you really get to believe–and I’m acknowledging that this sounds vaguely reminsicent of a Lucky’s commercial–the more you spend, the more you save.

So yesterday when I found the brown Katyone Adeli pants that at first sight I knew I’d be wearing that night or the one after, the goal was simple: find four more things. Now. Fast. Suddenly I become convinced that everything I want is right at that very moment being tried on by the Asian women I spied over the weekend. They were smarter and faster than me! They stayed Saturday and have come back every day since! I go into full-on heart-racing, sweating, headache-building panic. Instantaneous isn’t fast enough for me. I want to have tried on everything already but still get to have the experience of putting something on and realizing it’s perfect. Vests, tanks, sundresses–nothing is off-limits to me as I grab enough clothing to dress an entire Midwestern town.

The relief that pours through me when I realize something doesn’t fit is palpable. For me, the experience isn’t unlike dating someone you know you shouldn’t. It’s like…”Phew, I knew he thought Shakespeare wrote movies or that funneling popcorn into the esophogus at a rapid-fire, ridiculously loud pace was somehow acceptable. I knew he was wrong for me.” Clothes are tossed onto the ground rapidly, replaced by new ones. I’m hanging and handing my toss-offs off as if on an assembly line. “Borderline” plays in the background as I scan the jeans rack and see another girl turn to her friend and proclaim with a giddy look in her eye, “Now I’m really going to start shopping!” The friend squeals. They are experiencing shopper’s high, that feeling usually followed by shopper’s remorse. I slide a pair of jeans off the rack in silent judgment until I realize I’m singing along to “Borderline.” We are all on the same drug.

Amidst the stacks of clothing, I find the jewels. Try on the Diane Von Furstenberg wrap-around and leave my safe haven of a dressing room. Look to the 19 extra salespeople the store has brought in for the sale. They couldn’t care less about me and my DVF, they are not sycophantic salespeople working on commission who tell you that the Calvin Klein two-sizes-too-small dress looks fab. They are here because they know that taking on this gig means better access to the goods. They are not on my side. They probably want the DVF for themselves. Yet wouldn’t they have already bought it? Like a good student of the Art of War, I take from them what I can, accepting their indifferent reaction at face value. I return to the dressing room, switch the DVF for something else, hang it back on its tag and return it to one of the indifferent part-timers with a smile.

Inevitably, I find three things I need to have. Three. Not five. Wait, four. I do what seems like my 49th lap around the store, grabbing potentials. What’s 75% off of $3,000, I wonder, cursing my right brain’s inability to deal. I really do need a gold lame belt with a star charm on the front, I realize. Don’t I? Everyone needs a gold belt. Don’t they? But it’s $92–I don’t spend $92 on a belt. But it’s 75% off. Isn’t 75% off of $92 practically free? The headache I felt coming on has officially settled in. I need the belt. And the Earl pants, even though I have that exact same color pants at home. The Juicy jean shirt may be a size small but Juicy is meant to be worn small. I will tell myself anything in order to reach the five item mark.

With a sigh, I drop my five items on the counter. When the total reaches $250, I realize that this money really could have taken care of the whole lack-of-a-fax-line-or-working-machine-in-my-apartment issue. But what does it matter? Juicy, Earl, Katyone and sunddress are all mine.

And who, after all, can really say when a gold lame belt will come in handy?