“Ohhhmmmyyygggaawwwddd…” the shrill voice pierced through the store as I stood frozen in mid-poise. I had just stepped into the cute Soho shoe boutique, lured in by its bright lights and dazzling array of brightly hued shoes in the window. I knew in truth that there was zero probability that I could afford any of the fancy European makes in there. Still, like a moth to a flame, I puffed up my chest and marched right in. That’s when I was caught.
I instinctively reached into my pockets and looked towards the direction of the voice. Its source was a tall blonde woman in her 40’s, seated in the center of the store and flanked by an entourage of a boston terrier, a sales assistant and her fashionista friend decked out in a gorgeous Tibetan coat. The blonde lady looked straight into my eyes. She was dressed in black from top to toe and looked like she belonged more in the Upper West Side than Soho. Her manicured hands stroked the shivering dog as she pursed her lips and exclaimed, “ I LOVE YOUR PANTS!”
I must have had a strange mix of relief and bemusement settled across my face as it hit me, ‘Ah, she likes my pants…’
Except I wasn’t wearing any pants.
Well so technically they were leggings. Shiny PVC black spandex leggings to be exact.
They were the same pair I’d worn for Halloween in my reincarnation as Midnight Miss Suki -”the ultimate samurai warrior ninja princess!”- alongside PVC stiletto boots, silk kimono and hefty dragon sword.
I blushed, “Oh thank you..” I’m always a sucker for compliments to my sense of dressing but not when the entire store had stopped in mid-track and were eyeballing my shiny ode to S&M spandex. (Although I did make a point to tone it down with a pair of tall riding boots, a Mondrian print minidress and plain ole knitted cardigan.)
She turns to her friend, “Aren’t those simply stunning? I’ve always wanted to get those...” Her friend nodded in unison, “Yes, they are very cute.” She turns back to me and asks the million dollar question, “Where did you get them from?”
“Well actually these are just leggings. They’re selling gold and silver ones at American Apparel I think.” I dwindled on as I became all coy on where I’d bought my pair. I’d figured if they knew I’d bought them for $10 at Joyce Leslie (Editrix’s note: the mecca of ghettofabulous, trashy cheap fast fashion) a few months back, it might not have resonated with their polished sentiments.
“Oh is that where you’d bought them from?” cooed the blonde lady. I blushed. I am so bad at telling lies as my fort crumbles. “Well actually I’d gotten them at Joyce Leslie but that was a while back so I doubt they’ll still have them.”
Pregnant pause.
I looked at her face for any trace of confusion (“Is that the latest downtown designer?”) or disdain (“Urgh..Joyce Leslie? Thou art not cool anymore, thy is banished from this beacon of hipness!”). There was none. Instead she turns to her fashionista friend.
Her friend beamed as she took a deep breath and I watched her Tibetan coat heave. She nods- “Ah, Joyce Leslie….I love that place. You can always count on stumbling across something there.”
