Shop Therapy

I never understood women who had a passion for fashion. My episodes of shop therapy were realtively small-scale: lipstick; sparkly hair clips; or, after I started making a good living wage, pedicures. I didn't ritualize the purchase of shoes, coats, or handbags. Once every few years, when something got a hole in it, I would replace it. Or not.

But then again, I never understood drinking to escape your problems, either.

This has all changed.

First off, I had to get a new bag. My beloved messenger bag had been killing my back for months now. I hit all the usual suspects--Filenes and friends--looking for a clutch that wasn't too big, too small, too plastic, too boring-brown, too cheap, too expensive. I was getting worn down.

I hate Canal Street. So I did the next worst thing: I went to Bloomingdale's.

Bloomingdale's is Canal Street for the idle rich. But instead of shoving my way through the crowds at the vegetable stands, I was elbowing the teenie-boppers ogling Prada. And buying Prada.

The big difference isn't really quantifiable. It's a feeling. A mod feeling. An airy, pastel headspace brought on by backlit, soft-pink handbags on a clean white shelf. Could I ever live a life so airy and soft?

Waiter, another red wine, please.