The Socio-economics of Handbags

GUCCI RED PYTHON WITH RED SUEDE AND SILVER HARDWARE, JUST $4990 —>

I often confuse Yorkville and Yorkdale, which makes sense because the mall is just an indoor version of the neighbourhood — right down to a miniaturized Holt Renfrew.

I went in there and felt like a sewer rat on a mushroom trip. Everything was shiny and wonderful and a thousand dollars and I didn’t belong. My hair was falling apart and I was sweaty and unemployed and I had globs of that super dentist’s toothpaste on my cheeks because I’d just had my teeth cleaned. I ran my fingers across every leather handbag, and inspected the inner linings — most of them more opulent than the exteriors. Fendi, Gucci, Prada…names I’ve only ever heard of, let alone violated with my grubby fingers.

A gaggle of private school girls browsed in the Juicy section. One of them answered her phone and casually told her mom she was in Holt’s, the way I would have told my mom I was in McDonald's when I was that age. “Yeah yeah mom, be home soon…I don’t know WHEN mom, just SOON GAWD.”

In Stoneridge I picked up a royal blue clutch I wasn’t particularly interested in.
“Nice, isn’t it?” said the sales associate. He took it from me and removed the tissue filling.
“It’s Matt and Nat.”
I nod. I don’t care.
“I can tell you like royal blue,” he says, handing it back to me.
“Ya, well I’m wearing royal blue so…” I say plainly as I motion to my sweater.
“And it’s not leather. They're a vegan label.” He says.
“Oh.”


VEGAN PURSES DON'T SMELL AS NICE THOUGH

I would have discovered the bag’s colour, brand and material in good time with the five senses nature gave me, were it not for him distracting me with blatancy. I would like nothing more than to feel it and smell it and inspect its lining but you can’t sniff bags like a drug-detecting dog with all these commission-hungry clerks around.

I put the bag down and move to the opposite wall.
This time, a woman.
“These are all on sale. Buy one get the other 30% off.”
“Yeah, like this sign says,” I say with a hint of condescension.
“Yup.”
All I want is to browse at my leisure. Don’t tell me about the sale on fugly satchels when all’s I want is a clutch, bitch. I mean, I’ve slaved away in retail myself, but I was NEVER as pushy as these freaks.

In Coach, the prices aren’t even written on the bags, so I’m forced to ask one of the salesfreaks how much junk costs. “This one’s $250, that one’s $320.” I’m embarrassed by my ensuing expression of shock and disappointment that signals to the salesfreak that I’m not the sort of person who should be in here, so there’s no use helping me further. I am left alone for the remainder of my browse and I find that refreshing.


AT $698, SHE'S OUT OF MY LEAGUE *tears

In conclusion, if looking like a penniless sewer rat will get these freaks off my back, then I should funk up my hair and smear toothpaste across my face all the time! Should I ever get rich, I’ll go back to Holt Renfrew and slink around in that condition until security starts eyeing me, and then I’ll pick up the loveliest handbag and dump it on the counter with a surprise draw of my gold plastic just to show them this customer is always right.