I approach Canal Street, heart beating, pulse racing, cash in hand. After much deliberation in a hole-in-the-wall shop, filled floor to ceiling with a jumble of snazzy handbags, most with zippers and hardware covered in protective plastic, I make my choice. I finally opt for a bright blue bag, that if I squinted at without my -11.5 prescription eyewear, vaguely sorta kinda looks like the Bizzarro version of the latest “it” bag.
For exactly 7 minutes.
That’s how long it take me to leave the shop and start walking up Broadway toward wherever I left my good taste.
I immediately regret the purchase, knowing that the faux-my-goodness bag into which I just transferred all my shit is a fraud, just like me. I can’t afford a crazy status bag and I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. I may be cash-poor but I feel downright cheap when I carry my giant Marc Facobs.
And you’re not fooling anyone either, ladyfriend.
If you’re carrying a Vuitton bag, chances are, you’re not riding the crosstown bus or jumping the turnstile. I don't know about you, but from now on, I'm taking the Jackson I would have spent on that close-but-no-cigar knockoff and putting it into something far more satisfying and always in style: the DVD set of Sex and the City, Season 3. That sort of fake Fendi action I can get behind.