I just survived my first trade-only clothing sale. While I didn't leave with any dramatic 10 dollar bargains of which I can brag to my girlfriends about over Cosmopolitans, I did escape with a certain level of decorum and that's enough for me.
As I waited on the landing of the third flight of stairs, surrounded by women babbling like geese as they peered eagerly up the steps and at each other, I knew I didn't belong there. At all. These women were tingling with desperation, a burning desire which over-ruled everything. They were itching, eager and impatient. They knew what was waiting behind the doors of the forth floor was more than just a warehouse of Ladakh clothes at bargain prices. It was a new outfit to wear out that evening. The perfect date dress. That one item of clothing which could possibly change their lives. They were like bulls waiting at the gate, ready to bust into that room and grab as many items of clothing from as many racks as possible.
I'd heard about these kinds of sales before and the kind of women they attracted. They always sounded a little unbelievable, a stereotype which couldn't possibly exist because no one could be that shallow. No one could be that addicted to clothes that they were willing to check their sanity and common sense in at the door. Apparently not. These cashed and credited consumers do indeed exist and they were ready to spend as much time and money as necessary defending their material spirit.
As we crawled up the stairs and into the lobby of the holding room, the anticipation grew. A large glass pane was all that seperated these anxious women from their dream delight and through the pane, they could see what awaited them. Racks upon racks, piles upon piles, tables spilling with dresses, leggings, skirts, shirts, kaftans, pant suits, boob tubes, accessories and in the middle of it, those lucky women who had managed to get into the warehouse first. The nervous excitement heightened as the women around me watched in utter dispair as the lucky shoppers trawled through the racks. They could look, but they could not shop.
As people left the room with their cherished purchases, more were slowly let in. The women bustled, ready to jump start as soon as the door opened and they saw a break for freedom. As I finally made it into the room, the excited woman next to me gave me a wink and said, "Good luck!"
I'll take your luck and raise you some sanity.
As I tried to manoeuvre my way through the crowd, the more I felt like a loose coin being tossed through a tumble dryer. No matter where I turned, I came to face to face with the frenzy. Girls stripping off into their underwear as they tried on their prized discoveries, hopeful women clawing through the piles on the floor like bush turkeys and people tersely throwing discarded clothes aside as they moved from hanger to hanger. They were like seagulls and as soon as a fresh rack off clothes was brought out, they swarmed.
I moved hesitantly around the war zone; wire hangers left discarded on the ground like forgotten soldiers, clothes spilling out of boxes like lifeless bodies and frantic, red-faced women moving between the piles, searching, searching searching.
Soon it became too much. The air was rich with the stench of desperation and I could feel it developing like a film over my skin. Without having even picked up one article of clothing, I made my way for the door. As I swung it back and stepped across the threshold, I was pushed into the wall as a frantic women rushed past me and into the foray, her handbag gripped in one hand and her credit card in the other.
As I rode the lift back to reality, I knew I had learnt my lesson. A 10 dollar Ladakh dress may be a bargain, but your dignity is priceless.
No comments:
Post a Comment