Designer Audrey

My parents proudly passed on to me everything that they could. My dad’s genes for mathematical aptitude. My mom’s love of books. Their values, their morals, their beliefs. But one thing neither was able to pass on to any of their children was a sense of fashion. My parents will both happily admit that they wouldn’t recognize a Versace bag if they tripped over it on the sidewalk. In fact, I doubt they’ve ever heard the word Versace.

My brother, Tyler, is the only one in the family that doesn’t purchase his clothes from Old Navy, Good Will or the hippies on Telegraph Ave. Even if there were no other signs that he was adopted, his recent request for a $300 designer sweatshirt gives away his different genetic make up instantly.

Like my mother, I’ve always been perfectly happy to shop at discount stores. If a shirt is more than $30. I don’t need it. Pants? I’ll go up to $50. This has suited me fine my whole life. It’s not because I don’t have the money or that I’m cheap, I just have a perceived value of the items I buy. True, I’ll balk at spending $5 on a box of cereal. But for a fun night out with friends – a good dinner followed by drinks and dancing – I’d happily drop upwards of $100. And I’d have just as much fun dancing in a $25 skirt from H&M as I would in a $350 one from Dolce and Gabbana. Probably more fun, because I wouldn’t be worried about spilling on myself.

However, I am now a professional in New York City, the fashion capital of the country. Once in a while at the office, I’ll look around at the girls in their trendy dresses, purchased with care from designer boutiques in SoHo. Then I’ll look down at my generic v-neck tee-shirt and Pumas and I’ll feel a little bit sloppy.

My girl friends, East Coast and West Coast alike, have been on a mission for the last couple years: get Audrey to buy designer jeans. I’m the only girl in my social circle that doesn’t own any. And, slowly, over time, they’d managed to instill a tiny sense that every girl needs at least one pair. This is not something that was sinking in easily. A warm jacket? Sure. A reliable bike or a quality defrizzing hair product? These are what every girl needs. $200 jeans? Not at the top of my list. But, I was getting worn down from all sides. What can I say? I’m a sucker for peer pressure.

It finally happened last Saturday in Brooklyn Heights with my friend, Julie. And it started with a pair of boots. Julie talked me out of the $49.99 pleather FMBs that I had picked out.

“Those looks cheap,” she said, placing them back on the shelf. “I will not allow you to wear fuck-me-boots to work everyday.”

“But think about how much more often I’d get laid.” I stroked the pleather lovingly.

“Here,” she handed me another pair. “These are stylish, classic, sexy.”

“And $175.”

“Marked down from $350,” she pointed out. “Come on, you’ll wear these every day. It’s definitely worth it.”

I thought back to the last pair of black boots that I’d purchased. I’d bought them in late 2003, more than three years ago, and I had, in fact, worn those boots almost every day, lovingly wearing the heels down to a nub. Two repairs later, they were finally done. That’s what had landed me in this shoe store in Brooklyn Heights that afternoon. Julie and I had just finished our African Dance class and the two of us were doing some weekend shopping, still clad in our sweaty gym clothes.

“Fine, I’ll try them.”

I reluctantly pulled on $175 worth of knee-high black leather boots below my sweatpants. After three laps around the shoe store, some lunges and a brief tap dance, I was convinced. They were comfortable, classy and not made of pleather.

I left the store, exhilarated with my purchase. I was still reeling with the feeling of handing the saleswoman $180 in cash. That’s nine twenty-dollar bills. For shoes!

Julie decided to keep this rare roll going. “Let’s stop in this shop across the street for a sec. I want to try on some jeans.”

“Okay, but I’m just going to sit on the bench inside and wait.”

Which is what I did, for about fifteen minutes while Julie pulled various pairs of expensive blue jeans over her legs. She decided on a pair that I was admittedly impressed by. They did fit her really well. As the salesgirls circled around Julie, I stood up and began to peruse the shelves of designer denim. Seven. True Religion. Joe’s. Yes, I’d heard these brands in songs on the radio. I had never viewed them up close and in person. I studied the stitching to see what all the hype was about.

“Can I help you?” the salesgirl looked past my ragged gym clothes and viewed the potential sale inside.

“No, thanks. I’m just looking.”

“Your friend’s going to be awhile. Sure you don’t want to just try on a pair, or two, or three? Can’t hurt.”

Damn, she was good. “Okay, I’ll try some. What would you recommend?” I lifted my shirt a bit to show her my midsection, currently relaxing in my loose-fitting workout pants.

“Let’s see… what jeans fit you best usually? G-Star? Page?”

“Uh, Gap?”

Julie and the salesgirl exchanged knowing looks across the store.

Yes, it’s true, there was a real live designer virgin in her store, just waiting to be plucked from my world of $50 jeans and molded into a stylish fashionista.

“Here, these are my favorites; we just got them in yesterday. These look like they would fit you too. And these.” She filled my arms with dark blue denim, worth its weight in gold, and directed me towards the fitting rooms.

I reluctantly pulled off my sweats and tried on the first pair. They were tight. I had to hold my breath to zip up the fly. I took them off. The second pair was similar.

“Remember, they’re supposed to fit tightly,” Julie yelled through the fitting room curtain.

“Am I supposed to be able to bend at the waist while wearing the jeans?” I yelled back, struggling for air.

“Well...yeah,” she conceded.

I took off the second pair and let out a deep breath as my stomach returned to its regular, convex shape.

I tried on the third pair. To my shock and slight dismay, they fit perfectly. They were tight, but comfortable.

I came out of the fitting room and modeled them for my accumulating audience: Julie and two salesgirls. I was met with cheers of approval.

“You look great.” “Those fit perfectly.” “Look how good your butt looks.”

I looked dubiously at the bottom of the jeans dragging on the floor.

“We can hem them in the store,” the salesgirl preempted my argument. I examined myself in the mirror. My sneakers were not doing the pants justice.

“Let’s try those on with heels,” the salesgirl almost squealed with glee as she hurried over to the shoe shelf. This woman loved her job.

She returned with a pair of 6-inch stiletto heels with gold buckles. I eyed the shoes I would never even consider wearing, especially not with blue jeans. But she disregarded my wary look and slipped the horrors over my sweaty gym socks.

“There,” she stood up proudly. “Now walk around.”

Asking me to walk around in 6-inch stilettos and tight jeans is like putting tap shoes and a girdle on a horse and telling it to gallop. I awkwardly maneuvered through the store, teetering on the heels as I sucked in my stomach.

“Audrey would never wear those shoes, why don’t we try the jeans with something else.” Julie came to my rescue seconds before I toppled over a rack of cashmere sweaters.

“I know: my new boots!” What a brilliant idea I had just come up with. That’s what I would most likely be wearing the pants with anyway.

Julie and the shopgirls watched as I opened up the shoebox containing my latest purchase and removed the balled up paper and foam from inside the boots. I slipped them on under my jeans and pulled up the long zippers.

“There,” I stood up and admired myself in the mirror. “This is what I’ll be wearing to work everyday from now on.”

“Yes, that looks terrific.” “Those jeans are perfect with those boots.” “Walk around and let us see.”

I did my best runway walk around the shop – shoulders back, arms relaxed, leading with my hips, just like I’d seen on Project Runway.

“You’re buying those,” Julie instructed.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I liked what I saw. So what’s another $170 dollars? “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

I waited for applause from the salesgirls. I waited for cheers from the other store patrons. But everyone continued to shop quietly. The salesgirls looked pleased, but not as ecstatic as I thought they’d be. It was almost as if women purchased designer jeans every single day. Which, I supposed, they did. Women spent $170 on jeans every single day! This realization hit me with horror.

But I had little time to think about it. It was time to decide on a hemming length.

I had a salesgirl kneeling by each leg sticking pins into my jeans at various lengths. “I like my pants to break a bit higher than Cindy, because then you can also wear them with flats.” “I’d say go long, you can always make them shorter – can’t make them longer.”

I looked helplessly at Julie.

“I think that length is perfect, let’s pay and go.”

I was released back into the fitting room. I took off my new boots and put on my sneakers. I removed the jeans, now full of pins, and put on my comfy sweats. I felt like myself again.

After handing over what felt like my life savings and leaving the store, I hugged Julie goodbye and thanked her for all her help. I crossed the street to unlock my bike as Julie began to call our friend Stephanie in San Francisco to tell her the exciting news, Mission Get Audrey To Buy Designer Jeans: Completed!

It wasn’t easy riding my bike through Brooklyn while carrying a large bag of knee-high boots. I guess that most women don’t ride their bike to go shopping for designer clothes. But eventually, I was able to balance the bag from my right handlebar and still have room to pull the hand brake. The winter sun felt good through my sweatshirt, the breeze whistled through the hair under my helmet and I felt alive. I decided to forgo my house and ride to Prospect Park.

As I maneuvered my bag-bearing handlebars through the wide blocks of Park Slope, I contemplated the day’s activities. I couldn’t believe I had just dropped $350 on two items of clothing. But I knew that people, even people with less money than me, did that everyday. I felt an odd mixture of disgust and pride. I had succumbed to the pressure of our consumer society, and it felt really good.

The park was packed with people on this rare summery day in the middle of January. Kids rolled around in the grass, women rollerbladed, couples jogged past and a painter stood with an easel recording the scene. I slowed to admire the painting and was escaping into the image when a cyclist behind me shouted: “Your tires need air. They’re screaming for it.”

I looked down. He was right.

“Thanks,” I called out as I pulled over to the side of the bike path and took the pump off my bike. For some reason, I’m terrible at pumping air into my tires (yet another skill I did not receive from my parents). Soon my hands and clothes were covered in grease and my tires had less air in them than when I started.

Maybe it was time for a break. I looked around and noticed a cute guy sitting on a bench near by. A note to cute guys: When a single girl sits down near you on a park bench, it’s never a random occurrence. Her location is carefully calculated – far enough away to look caught up in her own thoughts, but close enough that if you happened to start a conversation, she wouldn’t have to strain to hear.

I sat down on the bench next to Cute Guy’s bench, took off my bike helmet and pulled my journal out of my bag. Before I could even begin to write about my new boots and jeans, he took the bait.

“Excuse me, do you know what time it is?”

Ha, oldest line in the book.

“Yeah, it’s ten after four.”

“Thanks.”

Pause. Pause.

“So what time do you think the sun will set?” Now I took the bait.

“Oh probably in an hour or so.”

“It’s so warm out, it feels like summer. It seems like we have another three hours.”

“I know,” he agreed. “I woke up this morning with the sun streaming through my window and I thought, didn’t we already do this a few months ago?”

“Totally,” I laughed and held out my hand. “I’m Audrey.”

“John.”

We ended up talking until the sun set, which was, in fact, only 45 minutes after we’d introduced ourselves. I walked him to the subway and then gave him my phone number before hopping on my bike and pedaling home in the waning light.

I had forgotten all about my designer jeans and my new boots until I picked them up to carry home. And I began to wonder… what drives people to wear expensive clothes?

To exude confidence? I had just picked up a guy while wearing sweaty gym clothes and a bike helmet.

To look good? A guy had just asked me for my number and I had streaks of bike grease across my forehead.

To feel rich? I zoomed through the tree-lined streets of Brooklyn, admiring the jagged silhouettes of the naked winter branches against the multicolored, dusk sky, and I felt richer than anyone in the world.

I wondered if I could still return the clothes.

This story might be more meaningful if it ended with me pedaling back to Brooklyn Heights and handing the expensive items back to the shopkeepers. “I don’t need your over-priced goods,” I would proclaim. “I’m just as good in my sweats and sneakers as any other New Yorker in her black Prada dress and 6-inch stilettos.”

But that’s not what happened.

I got back to my house and I locked up my bike. I carried the bag with my new boots upstairs and I emptied the contents on to my bed.

I examined my new purchase. I caressed the soft leather and fingered the fancy stitching. I gazed at them with a private admiration, like a young mother watching her new baby sleep.

They were beautiful. They were mine. And I’m going to look so damn good wearing them with my new designer jeans as I stroll into the office on Monday morning.