Confessions of a Label Whore

This is a fictional piece I did for my creative writing class.

Okay, listen up. I’ve got something to say, and I’m only going to say it once. This isn’t easy for me, you know… I think I may have a problem. Well, I mean everybody has problems. Take my step mom for instance. She regrets marrying my dad so much she drowns herself in valium and white zinfandel every other night. What a twat. But I guess no one is perfect, although I like to think that I’m pretty close to it. My only problem is that I’m addicted to retail. I am a total label whore. But I prefer to be called a fashionista.

Fendi. Prada. Juicy Couture. Gucci. Coach. Hermes. I love them all. I used to love Versace too before he got shot, and his drag queen of a sister took over. The point is, I only want name brand fashions, and I don’t care who knows it. In fact, I want everyone to know it. I enjoy it when I walk into the room and everyone admires my outfit. I like it when people can’t pronounce the clothes that I’m wearing. I love the look on their face when I tell them how much it cost. I get off on knowing that they know that I know that they will never be able to afford it.

I’m the girl who looks you up and down when you walk into the room. I sneer in your face when I see how cheap you are. I pick apart your failed attempts at looking stylish. I laugh at your outdated shoes while I sip my latte, and send text messages to my friends on my T-Mobile Sidekick 3. The same model that Lindsay Lohan has. I always know what the stars are into, because they are the real trendsetters.

I’ve heard that most people won’t buy something if it’s too expensive. I’m the exact opposite. I won’t buy anything unless it’s expensive. “You get what you pay for,” my mom always says. I guess she would know, she paid for a good attorney and got so much in the divorce that my dad had to sell one of the vacation houses. I really liked that house, too. It was on a private beach with a killer view. Oh well.

I always get what I pay for. Satisfaction. I typically spend thousands of dollars on a good day of shopping. I’ve got more credit cards than I can keep up with. The worker drones at Bloomingdale’s know me by name. The perfume counter people at Macy’s fight over me for the huge commission. The girls in Mac have my palette ready before I even get to the register. I spend so much time at Nordstrom’s, they might as well name the store after me. Nordstrom’s is such a lame name, anyway.

My boyfriend says that I’m a shop-a-holic. He’s such a douche. He spends hours in the Apple store, customizing his damn Ipod whatever, but if I so much as peek into Macy’s to check on the purses, he starts complaining. I hate him. When I asked him what he wanted for his birthday, he said breast implants. I laughed it off, but I know he was serious. Ugh, just the thought of him seeing the pain in my eyes for even a split second makes me sick to my stomach. He’s a total asshole, but he drives an H3, and his parents’ house is even bigger than mine. We might get married one day, if we can just stop cheating on each other. It’s not my fault that his best friend has nicer abs.

I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember, even before my parents got divorced. But the other day, something happened that made me think. It’s like, I’ve done some things that I’m not so proud of, and I’ve hurt a lot of feelings. It never bothered me before, but I think I went too far this time.

You see, at the beginning of March, I gave all of my winter clothes to the salvation army, because they were out of season. It’s not like I was going to wear them again. One of the things I gave away was a Donna Karan shawl, made out of white rabbit fur. I really liked that shawl, and I might’ve kept it, but at the New Year’s Eve party my boyfriend’s stupid brother bumped into me and spilled his drink on it. So it had this huge pink stain right on the front. I probably would’ve taken it to the cleaners, but like I said, it was going to be out of season anyway.

Then, last weekend, I’m at the mall with my boyfriend, his best friend, and his best friend’s girlfriend, who is also my best friend (or so she thinks), and I see this girl wearing a white fur shawl that looks just like mine. As we get closer, I realize that it really is mine. She’s standing at Cinnabon getting some fattening snacks or whatever, and I can see where she tried to have the shawl cleaned, only there’s still a faint pink tint in the front. I was pissed.

So, I walked right up to her and I said “Hey, I really like your shawl.” She smiled and thanked me. Then I smiled back and said “Where did you get it?”

She paused, and I could see her trying to think. “H&M.” she lied.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s funny, because I had one just like that. I got it from Bloomingdale’s, and I paid 3,000 for it.” She nodded, and I guess she didn’t see what I was getting at because she was still smiling when I said “But a guy spilled punch on it at a party and I gave it away to the Salvation Army. Actually, I think that’s my shawl you’re wearing right now.”

“That’s a mistake,” she protested, her smile fading when she realized I was telling the truth.

“Oh no,” I said loudly. “It’s not a mistake. See, there’s the pink stain right there. Rabbit fur is so hard to dry clean, isn’t it?”

It got so quiet, the only sound was the hum of the soda fountain. She gave me a really cold look, and walked away without getting her snacks. Everybody laughed, and my boyfriend kissed me on the cheek and called me his little society bitch. I wasn’t laughing though. I was really upset, maybe even more upset than the girl that I had just humiliated. I even thought about running after her and apologizing.

I really did like that shawl, and I threw it out for no reason. The stain wasn’t a problem. Unlike whatever cheap corner shop cleaner she dealt with, I have excellent dry cleaners. If they can get Hershey’s syrup and maraschino cherry juice out of my Egyptian cotton sheets, then they can get punch of out rabbit fur. I had gotten rid of something I really cared about, because of some stupid season. Next year I’d probably end up buying another one anyway, but I really did like that one. I started thinking about how many things I’d let go of because I could just get something else to replace it with.

My dad replaced my mom with a trophy wife who’s addicted to pills and reality tv. My mom replaced my dad with half of his annual salary and a penthouse in the city. I replaced them both with a best friend that screws my boyfriend behind my back while I screw hers. I replace my doubts and insecurities with shopping bags and beach parties. But it’s all so damn fake. The only thing that’s real about it at all, are the designer names on my clothes.

So there you have it. I’m a label whore. I judge people based on what they wear, and I only wear the best. I never did go find that girl and apologize, because when I got right down to it, I really didn’t care how she felt. She got what she paid for, shopping at the salvation army. Ugh. But, I did go back to Bloomingdale’s to look for that white rabbit shrug. I even found one… but it was on clearance. Last season, and all.

I bought it anyway.

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