The Fashionista Files (16 page)

REGRET ME NOTS?

For every fashionista, there are always a couple of things you didn’t buy and wish you had. We call those the “ones that got away.”

Farewell, My Concubine!
KAREN

Minutes before Mel’s engagement party is about to start, I am running around my bedroom, freaking out over the fact that I have nothing to wear. I hate my clothes! I have tried on a dozen things, from hot and sexy to modern to uptown lady. And all of it is sitting on my bed, piling up, as I rummage through my racks. Can’t wear the army-green backless halter and newsboy cap—wore it last week and I’m sick of it. Refuse to put on the black slip dress with rose details and a lace hemline—I always thought it was a bit cheesy. The way my favorite Balenciaga ruffled skirt ruches in the midriff makes me look fat—that’s not gonna do.

If only I had that white backless Chloe jumpsuit with the draping neckline and the Studio 54 edge. It would be so fantastic with my white open-toed Prada patent-leather forties-style shoes, circa 1995—and the straw fedora with gold trim. When I tried it on, it was love at first sight. I stepped out of the dressing room as if I were Bianca Jagger, one of my style icons. It was fun, yet sophisticated, feminine yet strong, hard yet soft, and sexy without being too revealing or showy. The ultimate party wear. At the time I needed something for a swank dinner party, and it was between the jumpsuit and a black dress with a plunging neckline and giant cockatiels at the base of the spaghetti straps.

I went with the dress. I thought it was the smart choice at the time. Who doesn’t need a black dress with giant cockatiels? I wore it once . . . and discovered that that plunging neckline was a
lit-
tle too plunging. And those birds? They were patches that got kind of itchy. While the dress is fierce, it just isn’t the jumpsuit. And I can’t tell you how many times, other than Mel’s engagement party, I have wanted to wear the jumpsuit.

The store had only one. It was sold (to Celine Dion, of all people). I called a dozen stores that carry Chloe. No one had it. I called Paris. I have looked many times on eBay. I have searched consignment shops. And I have come up empty-handed. If I could trade something in my wardrobe for it, I would in a hot second. It pains me every time I think about it. I look for something like it each new season. I have tried vintage stores, all to no avail. Almost two years later, I still haven’t let it go. I miss it. Maybe in my next life I’ll meet up with it again. Until then, I hope Celine appreciates it as much as I would have.

Haunted, While the Minutes Drag
MELISSA

There’s a closet somewhere that’s stuffed with all the clothes I wish I had had the good sense to buy. The Balenciaga lion vest that launched Nicolas Ghesquière into the forefront (and was marked down to $199 from $800), the Eley Kishimoto red calf-length jacket with oversize buttons ($399 from $700). It happens when you’re an inveterate shopper. Once in a while, you let your guilt or your good sense get in the way—the voice that says, hey, maybe I should pay my rent this year instead of buying that Chanel skirt. So you stand there, coveted item in hand, put it down, and walk away.

Then it haunts you forever.

There’s a certain fur-trimmed black Byblos coat that never leaves my mind. It had a shawl collar with the fluffiest, fattest fox fur, tinted just this side of violet-black. It shone lavender in the light, and it was divine. The coat was a slim-fitted black cashmere, Italian, and lined with silk. It was only $250 from $900. My memory for prices—and their markdowns—is uncanny. Once a friend told me, when someone complimented me on my clothes, that I don’t have to tell them all the details—designer, original price, and what I paid for it. A simple thank-you would suffice. But old habits die hard!

Unfortunately, I put the coat down. I had already spent my limit for the season, even though I really “needed” a fur-trimmed coat.
Next time,
I promised myself. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking of that coat. I woke up early and went to the store the minute it opened. But it was already gone. I still think of that coat, and I’ve never found anything close to it. It was irreplaceable. It’s more real to me than the dozen winter coats that hang in my closet. One day I know I’ll get over it. I hope.

LETTING GO—IT’S NEVER EASY

There are no tips here. If you didn’t get it, that ship has sailed. It wasn’t meant to be. Like a boyfriend you break up with, move on. We sympathize. So here are some emotional tools that will get you through this difficult time.

Burn sage and smudge, a Native American spiritual tradition that cleanses the aura and energy. This will help detoxify your spirit.

Light candles and take a moment of silence to recognize and pay homage to whatever it is you’re mourning so you can have some closure. That should help you get over it.

Make a list of all the things that you would wind up finding wrong with the item(s) in question (i.e., it has to go to a special dry cleaner, which is really expensive; this kind of fabric gets pilly; the color fades after being dry cleaned so many times; I can’t wear it on my fat days; I’m sure those fringes would wind up getting caught in the car door and ripping off, etc.).

Click your heels three times and say, “This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass.”

Put on your absolute favorite things to wear and dance around your apartment. You have such chic style, you didn’t really need it anyway.

If the above suggestion doesn’t work, just drink lots of chamomile tea and cry if you must. It’s a very soothing coping technique.

Find solace in the fact that if you had that outfit, sweater, pair of jeans, or whatever it was you regret not buying, you’d still be standing in your closet, half-naked, thinking,
I have nothing to
wear.
The fact is, you only want it because you don’t have it. Just like relationships and boys, there will be a new (and cuter) one around the corner when you’re not looking for it or expecting it.

BUYER’S REMORSE

Definition: The feeling of shame and sorrow that often comes with having wasted hard-earned money on something that you never, ever wear.

Really, I Shouldn’t Have!
KAREN

Shopping tends to cloud the mind. I very easily get caught up in the excitement of it all, unable to see straight. It’s sort of like drinking too much and spending the night flirting and making out with a guy you think is really cute, only to find out the next day, when you’re sober and bump into him, that he is the ugliest guy you’ve ever seen. Such is the case during many shopping sessions. Buzzed from the scent of new clothes and the fantasy the garments represent, I have made many terrible decisions that have left me, a.) broke, b.) depressed, c.) in the awful predicament of having nothing to wear.

Let me bring you to a moment I had during an end-of-season sale at Gucci’s. The store was packed with pushy women getting their fix of things that were up to 70 percent off. You could hear the screeches of joy emerging from dressing rooms. “It’s only a hundred dollars! Get two!” “It’s too big! But for this price, it pays to have it fully reconstructed by my tailor.” “I don’t care if the shoes are too big. I’ll put pads in them.” Sandwiched in an overcrowded rack of evening gowns, where I was browsing “just for fun,” I came across a kelly-green backless halter top made of nothing but dangling beads, some of which dripped down to the middle of the thigh—the very same piece that Jennifer Lopez and Elizabeth Berkeley were photographed wearing with jeans earlier that season. It was divine. Originally $2,000, it was down to a mere $300, and I was not letting it go.

“If you don’t get that, will you please let me know so I can?” pleaded a woman who went to reach for it at the same time as I did. “Of course,” I said, knowing full well that there was no way in hell I was giving this master-piece up. I brought her to the dressing room so we could get to know each other (the top, I’m talking about) more intimately. I needed to know how she (again, the top . . . it’s definitely a she) felt against my skin. I tied the green satin string around my neck and hooked the metallic green puckered strap around my lower back. I took a step back to admire her. And the only thing I saw were both of my breasts, which were fully popping out of the sides of the top, which didn’t come close to covering my chest because the silhouette was too narrow.

Yikes! The only way I can wear this is if I hold my chest all night!

Noooooo!
I thought.
It can’t be. God cannot be this cruel!
There had to be a way to make it work. I squeezed my breasts together to make them fit. They didn’t. But I had the brilliant idea of taping them together. Yes, that would be perfect. When I went to pay for it, the saleswoman gasped, “Lucky girl! This top is soooo good.” My sense of accomplishment soared, like I had won a Pulitzer. I beamed and excitedly rushed home to tend to the masking tape.

Once my breasts (a.k.a. “the girls”) were pulled close together in the center of my chest, I put on the top. It was a match. Sort of. While there was no side cleavage, you could see the indentations the tape left on my boobs through the fabric, which did not lie properly across me. I pulled the tape off briskly (it didn’t tickle) to try again, this time only a little more loosely. Still, you could see where the tape was through the fabric.
Well,
I thought,
it’s not like
I need to wear this anytime soon. I’ll just put it aside and deal with it
later.

Although it has never been worn outside of the confines of my own home (actually, not true—I loaned it to a small-breasted friend for a fabulous wedding she attended in Capri, Italy), I admire it on the hanger every now and then and think,
One day, my
sweet . . . one day.
It’s been four years. And it’s still hanging in my closet!

What Was I Thinking?
MELISSA

Viktor & Rolf are a pair of avant-garde German designers who made their name by creating outlandish, superfabulous outfits that are worn by the likes of Cecilia Dean, the editrix-in-chief of
Visionaire
magazine, and my fashion heroine. Cecilia is part Filipina, which accounts for my hero worship. She can always be counted on to wear the most exciting things from the runway, and she was an early supporter of the duo.

One of their signature pieces was a white seventies “disco suit” edged with black satin ruffles, so that the white suit “popped” out of the background. Another was their “Babushka” collection, when they sent models down the runway wearing all of the clothes designed for the season at once. They looked like stuffed kewpie dolls. The spring of 2001, they designed their “Americana” collection, wherein they splashed the Stars and Stripes all over ruffled silk shirts and white bootleg jeans. (Later that year, when patriotic chic was in, fashionistas showed their colors by wearing their V&R outfits!)

I had been following their career and work for years, but their pieces were priced way above my comfort level. So you can imagine my delight—my intense joy—when I found them at Century 21. There it was—a ruffled leather shirt, puffed and slim-fitting. It was a classic Viktor & Rolf statement, and at $299 from $1,500, it had my name all over it. I immediately took it home with me, and showed it to Karen the next day.

“Oh . . . my . . . God. This is
major
!” she said, oohing and ahhing over the shirt. She caressed the leather tenderly. “It’s
beyond
!” That week we were getting our pictures taken for our author photos. I wore the shirt with a pair of pink wool trousers. I felt pretty fine.

Then the photos came back.

The failed photo shoot with the disappointing leather top!

Instead of supreme fabulosity, I looked like I was wearing a shirt made of rubber tires. It was a disaster. The shirt bunched up and reflected light in the oddest places. I almost cried from disappointment and grief. But I couldn’t return it. It was a little piece of fashion history that was all mine. Someday I know it’s going to hang in a glass case with the note “Viktor & Rolf, 2002, on loan from the collection of Melissa de la Cruz.”