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On Monday morning, therefore, I find myself on the phone to Holt Renfrew in Toronto. I have survived my first nicotine-free month and had even risked being around smokers. It was time to reward myself. More than that, if I don’t reward myself, having so promised, my subconscious may rebel and start sneaking my body outside at parties, first just to talk to the smokers, then one night when tipsy just to have a puff and before I know it, I’ll be lost again.
Shanni answers and, in no time, she has out the measuring tape and we’re working. Shanni keeps apologizing for the long-distance charges. I am supremely oblivious.
I have a thing for Kate Spade bags. They’re nicely minimal, surprisingly feminine and only those who know, know a Kate Spade bag. They’re made out of fabric mostly, not leather, which pleases me. They look cheap, they look egalitarian, but they are not. They can carry books and newspapers. They’re expensive, sometimes shockingly so, and generally sturdy. Though my first, which cost $400, was made of gingham cotton, and held up for about four days. I grimly carried it though two summers until people started insulting me.
There followed a Gap period. So close and yet so far. Now, I think anyone who pays $300 for a Helmut Lang T-shirt — the knockoff of which was on the sale table at the Gap BEFORE the Lang version hits the stores — is an out-and-out fool. Everyone who knows anything about fashion knows the circle goes street, cool hunter, designer, runway, photographers on the runway, Hong Kong knockoff shop, street. So why even bother go to the designer? But when I carry a $40 bag, I feel a little, well, pathetic.
Shanni runs back and forth and gamely describes fabric, clasps, lining, bottom and top width. I, on the other end have my old bags on the dining room table and I am measuring. The corduroy, the plaid, bubbly charcoal knit, black, navy? FIVE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY FIVE DOLLARS? I remind my horrified self that I have previously made up a limit of half a mortgage payment a season, and though I haven’t decided whether there are two seasons: winter and summer, or four, or even six, including resort and transitional, I must at least count two seasons.
After about half an hour and two visits to the sale table, Shanni and I reach a compromise on all the many many details that go into making this kind of a decision. She has taken me in all seriousness every second, repeating herself until I’m certain she wanted to wriggle down the phone lines,Christian Louboutin Shoes, her hands clutching for my throat.
And I put down the phone, suffused for a few halcyon moments, with untrammeled bliss.

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