I did something really regrettable this afternoon. I ventured into the Land of Temptation. After years of repeatedly subscribing to the Anthropologie catalog (repeatedly because, since I never buy anything, I always get booted off the mailing list after two or three seasons of mooching pretty pictures and I have to start the sign-me-up process all over again); dog-earing pages of dreamy clothes and home furnishings; drawing stars of ball-point desire by the most alluring items; crying, "Oh! Look! Look!" in unison with huddles of sisters-in-law; and cross-referencing with Oilily; I took the unspeakably dangerous step over the line and entered the non-print 3-D world of the Gateway Plaza Anthropologie. I could blame my Rob; he's always egging me on: "You should go in there one day. Try on some clothes." Yeah. Sure. Don't I already torture myself enough every day without falling in hopeless love with a $400 pair of socks, or worse, an outfit that would rival a healthy downpayment on a home?
Well, today I did it. Half of it at least. I stepped inside. I passed the threshold. I only had three and a quarter minutes tops to ogle the offerings, as my companion and I were on our way to pick up an elderly friend downtown who would be tapping her toes with impatience in the hot sun if we were late. Three and a quarter minutes--that's only 255 seconds, but I made them count. I touched with my eyes and fingers as much color and texture as I could. I treated the experience as a trip to an art gallery. A really fast trip. Sure, a few lovely pieces stung me, but it helped my resistance to have time working against us. I couldn't get too emotionally involved, or so I thought until I was a few steps away from the exit. That's when I saw it. That's when I spotted THE DRESS. I happened to turn and there it was, on the end of a rack, looking at me.
"Hello. Do I know you?" it asked, politely. "Excuse me, but I think we met in the pre-existence. Please, won't you help me fill the measure of my creation?"
"You . . . are . . . beautiful! Who's your designer, James Audubon? You're . . . you're covered in flowers and . . . and . . . hummingbirds!"
It was, as I said, necessarily a brief meeting. There was definitely chemistry between us, but there were the apparent problems of price and modesty. I didn't happen to have $158 plus tax. I didn't happen to have time to figure out what to layer beneath the dress (ah, the clavicle! the shoulders! the back!). I didn't happen to have time to try it on either, which is probably what actually saved me.
Ah, me. It hurts. How will I ever get to sleep tonight?
I've always said and still maintain that if I ever become a rich person I will continue to frequent thrift stores and funky second-hand shops. I can't think I would ever not want to hit D.I. or Goodwill, or Grunts & Postures. I'd want to use my money for better causes than stuffing my closet with big-ticket pieces, and I do love the hunt when it comes to thrifting. But you know what? If I ever do find myself rolling in money, I think I am just priority-challenged enough to want to budget at least a little for some regular Anthropologie therapy.
Note to all bloggerettes who purchased the viral shirt: complete your look with these--