S-A-L-E

Last week, it happened. In a small town like San Luis Obispo, cow-tipping isn’t unheard of, storefronts go dark at 9PM, and small crimes are broadcasts like they are the sixth sign of the apocalypse, but twice a year (TWICE A YEAR) something happens that merits an all out Julie Andrews-style prance through the mountaintops: The Coverings Blow-Out Sale.
It may seem absurd to compare a small designer boutique sale to a department store sale, but this “boutique” must have a HUGE backroom because there is more decent merchandise there than at almost any Bloomingdales end of season sale I have ever been too. Marc Jacobs coats for $50, L.A.M.B shoes that are marked down to $80, Elizabeth and James sweaters for $70, and that’s not even the half of it. It’s glorious; a real
Bona-fide sale: the way every shopaholic dreams a sale should be.
In the interest of full disclosure I will admit that I have a dark history with this store too. Not to dwell on the past, but let’s just say that during their regular store hours it is not uncommon for them to follow you around like you’ve got bacon in your pocket and they’re a bunch of golden retrievers. I don’t shoplift, so I resent the insinuation. I will leave it at they are the opposite of something that starts with an “s” and end with “ubtle.” Regardless of my decree to never shop at a store that treats me like the homeless guy who just walked in the exit door of Souplantation, I continue to go to their sales because I can’t resist. Each time I spend way too much money on crap that….well let’s face it…I totally need: that third pair of ripped jean shorts or that 4th high-waisted skirt to add to my collection. They each added some much needed depth to my overflowing closet.
None of this is my point though; rather I would like to point out my complete magnetism to four letters. If Chico’s has “S-A-L-E” written in big red lettering in their window, chances are I will be there shopping for my grandma who desperately needs another cable knit sweater. If Albertson’s has two shopping carts full of discount goods from passed holidays, I have to scour to the bottom of each, not because I plan on buying anything but because I can’t stand the idea of missing out on a deal. I scour through every thrift store jewelry counter because A. they have really strange cool jewelry usually, but also because I found a $20 Tiffany’s bracelet there three years ago and I know that eventually history may repeat itself.
Clearly, my need to shop stems from many different mental disorders: The first and foremost being that I love fashion. If Saks started selling grocery store bags that were quilted together to make a dress there is a more than likely chance that I would be wearing one. This isn’t because my mind is impressionable or that I’m shallow, but because I love trends (EXCEPT for the current “individualist” trend that essentially means everyone shops for plaid at Forever 21 and acts like their Kurt Kobain when really they are more like Derek Whibley). Of course, coming in at a close second to my love of fashion, is my love of buying: my postmodern need to consume is overwhelming. I get an immediate rush from spending money even if all I bought was deodorant.
This may seem pathetic, but I like to consider myself as merely self-aware. We are all postmodern lemmings, at least before I jump off the cliff I will be dressed in my Sunday’s best.