She who has the most bags, wins!
I have seen into the eyes of evil. And it happened at the Prada sample sale.
The words "sample" and "sale" together in the same sentence will cause most grown women (and some men) to be reduced into snarling, red-eyed beasts. The pupils dilate and the hands take on a claw-like manner, ready to scoop out the heart of anyone who dares even look in their direction. Die-hard devotees show up with their battle plans, wearing unitards so they can save time by not having to run to the dressing room. ”Gotta limber up for that sample sale!”
But since sample sales have become a dime-a-dozen in New York City, the allure and appeal have faded away over the years (for me, anyway) into a understanding that the words "sample sale" do not preclude exclusivity. Not when there's websites and a weekly column in the New York Post devoted to publicizing them.
In most cases, you must be prepared to accept whatever is at hand, as the goods are probably something you never even considered owning until you walked in. And that's after the best bits have already been picked over by fashion editors during the private portion of the sale. But this is where the grade school math kicks in and in assessing the chasm between retail cost and sample sale price, Budget Amnesia kicks in. As a result, my past (and unfortunate) acquisitions have included:
- Wedge sandals in yellow. Not gold. Yellow. Let's not even discuss that they were also crushed velvet.
- A shirt that said "Socialite" in rhinestones. The irony was lost within the first minute I wore it.
- Gucci sandals. Absolutely nothing wrong with that but as much as I tried, I couldn't convince my feet to shrink two sizes smaller.
Let's not even discuss the humiliation of having to try on an item in the open plan dressing room. Although if you've got a dressing room at a sample sale, then you're lucky. It just makes the whole operation seem more like Loehman's without The Back Room. I'm sorry, but standing in the back of some overheated loft, watching sweaty, half-naked women (men: it's not like you think) pick over the same designer skirt, from a pile of clothes on the floor that have been trampled on countless times...remind me just why I'm here again?
So I stopped doing the sample sales, convincing myself that unless I camped out in front of the site eight hours prior to opening, there was nothing worth scoring. And I love my sleep way too much to be doing that.
There's only two exceptions I'll make: Showroom Seven's sale, because they have awesome stuff, and the Prada sample sale, because it's invite only. And I get invited because one of my oldest friends works there and can get me in there the first minute after the press gets their pickings. And today was that day.
So many people who attend the sale dress up for this sale, like it's a coming out party. It's as if they don't really need this sale, but they're going to dress up to the nines and then sneer at everyone else for shopping discount. Well, I don't buy it. They're all mutton dressed as lamb. I saw Helen Lee Schifter roaming around in search of bargains, her eyes homing in on the clothing racks like heat-seeking missiles. This tiny, much-photographed woman could easily take on the entire Jets defense as long as you dangle discount Prada before her. Next time you see her sporting a designer ballgown in the pages of Vogue, just know she took someone's eye out for that dress.
As for my mom and I, we made off with a few bags, relieved that we were there early enough to snag something that wasn't tasselled to death, overtly floral, or so in the moment, by the time I walk out the door it's passe. I'm just not an "in-the-moment" (air quotes! air quotes!) kind of girl. And all this was accomplished without too much bodily harm. Although I can tell you that when they're the scary-skinny kind, those elbows are like pincers.
Having joined us, C had surveyed the fray and deduced - mistakenly - that the feral shoppers, the sweat on delicate foreheads, and the women dropping trou in public to try something on immediately, he assumed that all this was indicative of the Prada-obsessed. But no, darling, this is a sample sale we're talking about. It's a jungle out there and only the most fashionable survive.
The words "sample" and "sale" together in the same sentence will cause most grown women (and some men) to be reduced into snarling, red-eyed beasts. The pupils dilate and the hands take on a claw-like manner, ready to scoop out the heart of anyone who dares even look in their direction. Die-hard devotees show up with their battle plans, wearing unitards so they can save time by not having to run to the dressing room. ”Gotta limber up for that sample sale!”
But since sample sales have become a dime-a-dozen in New York City, the allure and appeal have faded away over the years (for me, anyway) into a understanding that the words "sample sale" do not preclude exclusivity. Not when there's websites and a weekly column in the New York Post devoted to publicizing them.
In most cases, you must be prepared to accept whatever is at hand, as the goods are probably something you never even considered owning until you walked in. And that's after the best bits have already been picked over by fashion editors during the private portion of the sale. But this is where the grade school math kicks in and in assessing the chasm between retail cost and sample sale price, Budget Amnesia kicks in. As a result, my past (and unfortunate) acquisitions have included:
- Wedge sandals in yellow. Not gold. Yellow. Let's not even discuss that they were also crushed velvet.
- A shirt that said "Socialite" in rhinestones. The irony was lost within the first minute I wore it.
- Gucci sandals. Absolutely nothing wrong with that but as much as I tried, I couldn't convince my feet to shrink two sizes smaller.
Let's not even discuss the humiliation of having to try on an item in the open plan dressing room. Although if you've got a dressing room at a sample sale, then you're lucky. It just makes the whole operation seem more like Loehman's without The Back Room. I'm sorry, but standing in the back of some overheated loft, watching sweaty, half-naked women (men: it's not like you think) pick over the same designer skirt, from a pile of clothes on the floor that have been trampled on countless times...remind me just why I'm here again?
So I stopped doing the sample sales, convincing myself that unless I camped out in front of the site eight hours prior to opening, there was nothing worth scoring. And I love my sleep way too much to be doing that.
There's only two exceptions I'll make: Showroom Seven's sale, because they have awesome stuff, and the Prada sample sale, because it's invite only. And I get invited because one of my oldest friends works there and can get me in there the first minute after the press gets their pickings. And today was that day.
So many people who attend the sale dress up for this sale, like it's a coming out party. It's as if they don't really need this sale, but they're going to dress up to the nines and then sneer at everyone else for shopping discount. Well, I don't buy it. They're all mutton dressed as lamb. I saw Helen Lee Schifter roaming around in search of bargains, her eyes homing in on the clothing racks like heat-seeking missiles. This tiny, much-photographed woman could easily take on the entire Jets defense as long as you dangle discount Prada before her. Next time you see her sporting a designer ballgown in the pages of Vogue, just know she took someone's eye out for that dress.
As for my mom and I, we made off with a few bags, relieved that we were there early enough to snag something that wasn't tasselled to death, overtly floral, or so in the moment, by the time I walk out the door it's passe. I'm just not an "in-the-moment" (air quotes! air quotes!) kind of girl. And all this was accomplished without too much bodily harm. Although I can tell you that when they're the scary-skinny kind, those elbows are like pincers.
Having joined us, C had surveyed the fray and deduced - mistakenly - that the feral shoppers, the sweat on delicate foreheads, and the women dropping trou in public to try something on immediately, he assumed that all this was indicative of the Prada-obsessed. But no, darling, this is a sample sale we're talking about. It's a jungle out there and only the most fashionable survive.
posted by Currin Girl at 7:38 PM
4 Comments:
It was Chaiken and Capone - and you just reminded me of the two wool skirts I got there. There was so much material in them, Bjork would have gone...well Bjork on me to own them!
There are very few sample sales worth going to which sucks so invitation only is the best way to go. But somehow the ugly beasties jump out when you know that there is the possibility of getting something so amazing for a great price!
??? i was at that sale and helen lee schifter was very sweet and very nice and actually she helped me find great shoes and she only bought a few things, most for her niece! maybe you have sour grapes?
Anonymous - thanks for posting. There were a couple of us who compared battle scars afterwards, thus I realize we had a different experience than you obviously did. But I did say sample sales have that effect on people, so Ms. Schifter is forgiven as long as she throws me a shout out at the next Frick ball.
Thanks to you, I was finally inspired to answer one of those wierd questions Blogger always asks in my profile. So to that end, my grapes may have a little whine in them, but their ultimate component is humor - always humor.
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