The Visa Diaries

I was at a wedding a few months ago, and at the rehearsal dinner my friend Gillian complimented my dress. “Oh, its from GILT,” I replied, forgetting that Gillian lives in London, where GILT might not be a household name. She looked at me blankly, until I explained the concept: a recession business, good designer collections at big discounts, like who shops anywhere else these days? Her eyebrow shot up with interest.

The next evening, the scenario repeated itself. Different dress, but Gillian liked it also (she’s very kind), and lo-and-behold, that one came from GILT too. I felt a little sheepish for some reason – actually, the same guilt I feel at work each time the mail guys come in with a new personal package for me… from GILT. Thank goodness the boxes are not overtly marked (like exterminator vans and porno magazines) but really the trained eye knows a GILT box when they see one, and I think my colleagues and the mail guys are starting to catch on.

But anyway, back to our story: by Sunday of the wedding weekend, Gillian assumed that my entire wardrobe was from GILT. At the beach, she looked at my bathing suit and said, “GILT?”  (It was not, actually).

GILT is not news at this point, but it is interesting for me to realize that, over a year into my association with GILT, it has truly transformed the way I shop. I pass brick and mortar boutiques these days and think, “Oh god, who would ever buy something at full price??” and also, “Well, that looks cute, but I don’t have any money left b/c I already bought two things on GILT this month…” I do feel sorry for the demise of local fashion retailers… and yet GILT is just an unbeatable combination for me. It my guilty habit.

Here are the reasons its got me hooked:
1. Discounts. Here I have to say that I don’t actually spend less money by shopping on GILT, I just buy things that had a higher price to begin with. Are they better? Are the prices listed actually prices, or were they just inflated to be discounted? I can’t say for sure… but it does make me feel like I’m getting a bargain. (Which means that I’m actually being frugal… right??)

2. Timing. It pops into my inbox every day at approximately 11:50 a.m. I am almost invariably feeling slightly bored and disenchanted with work (the nature of the beast), and welcome the escape. It is a small diversion, a bit of effervescence. Shopping is the opportunity to imagine myself and my life transformed into the fantasy of the person who would wear that thing. Work turns out to be the place where that fantasy is direly needed.

3. Variety. J.Crew and Urban Outfitters regularly pop into my inbox announcing sales also, but I almost never even open those messages. Part of the appeal of GILT is that its got different designers everyday. No annoying self-promotion, no flogging of the same tired pony.

That’s it, the 1-2-3 killer combination. The product itself is almost secondary. It is exciting when a box arrives, but in most cases I’ve practically forgotten about it by that point. The joy is mainly in the envisioning.

What are the results of my association with GILT? For one, my wardrobe has gotten better. For two, I spend almost no time shopping anymore (umm, at least not outside of my lunch hour…) But for three, I have an increased level of shopping anxiety. Or should we say guilt. I live with a faint but perceptible worry that I will be tempted by something in the day’s email.

However, this anxiety has not proven enough to make me cancel my membership. For now at least, the thrill of the occasional jewel/ bargain is worth the demon of constant temptation.

Gillian emailed me a few days later to report that GILT does indeed ship to London. Her first purchase was on its way.

Some little voice inside is telling me that I shouldn’t write about my knickers on a public blog. You know, one that grandmothers and bosses might see. With apologies, however, I am going to go ahead and ignore that voice, and if you are a boss or a potential employeer, or a grandmother, or anybody else who doesn’t want to know about my knickers, please just skip this post. It won’t actually be very titillating anyway.

The reason I am ignoring that sensible voice in my head is because I have recently become OBSESSED by MYLA. And anyway, I would be remiss in the serious research purpose of this blog if I ignored a purchase category as charged with emotion and politics and women’s underwear. I mean, from corsets and crinolines to wonderbras and thongs, ladies’ smalls are a barometer of changing times and the delicate balance of sexual politics.

As I am sure you know, Myla is one of the new generation of fun, sexy, and beautifully made –if un peu cher – lingerie brands. In my awareness, the trend started with Agent Provocateur, but I could be wrong about that. These lines are different from the La Perlas of the world because they are younger and more attitudinal. Whereas La Perla is for a Stepford Wife sort of perfectly preserved Brentwood housewife, Agent P et al is lingerie for a generation of woman who grew up taking feminism’s victories for granted. Its for the PRs and stylists of this world, independent, self-possessed and self-promotional, for whom sexuality is one more tool she can use to claw her way to the top of the A-list. Not that that’s me of course (just want to make that clear for all the bosses and grandmothers who are still reading!), but that is the brand fantasy they are projecting.

Anyway, I much prefer Myla to Agent P., which is in fact only saved from being complete ho-wear by the multi-hundred dollar price tag. Myla is somehow more wholesome, the girl next door, but with a sly glint in her eye – Kirsten Dunst as Lux Lisbon, for example. Much more subversive.

Sadly, much of these theories about the relative merits of various high-end knicker brands was purely academic, as I am not usually in the market for undergarments that cost a sizeable portion of the montly rent. What brought on this Myla love was an amazing, gift-from-above *sale*! And also a break-up. But God bless clearance sales. Right around the corner from where I was living in Notting Hill, the lovely people at the Myla store decided to open up their backroom, stock it with racks and racks of their delectable little nothings, and drop drop drop their prices lower than a J. Lo neckline. Bras that used to be £120 down to £20 – that sort of J. low. My pulse was racing madly from the bargain, never mind the sexy lingerie. But the polka dots and lace and cute details and nice fabrics were all good too.

Ok, ok, back to the break-up bit, because of course this blog is about the psychology behind purchases. Arvind and I broke up. I wasn’t going to mention it here, but since he has featured in my stories, we thought I should. We are still good friends and all is well. But I have moved back to New York… and bought lingerie! I mean, that’s what you do when you become single – you move continents and buy underwear, right?

Lover of aphorisms and inspirational doo-dads that I am, I used to have a greeting card that said, “Hope is the bird that sings to the dawn while it is still dark.” Something like that anyway – I think it was by Rumi. A very beautiful sentiment. Sometimes I feel that shopping is like that bird, this time of year, especially. After being unseasonably warm all through January, we finally got winter just when the stores were getting spring. I felt kind of sorry for them, mannequins standing in the windows with frilly little dresses and shorts when it was snowing and sleeting outside. For once, the stuff that was on sale – the winter stuff – was what was actually appropriate to buy.

At first, the spring merchandise looked totally misguided and forlorn, like a migratory bird who has arrived back up north too late, only to find the lakes still frozen and nowhere to eat or rest. But gradually, as the summer gear gathered mass and cavorted there in the shop windows, flaunting bright patterns in light fabrics, seemingly bathing in a sun that shone only on it, it started to look as if the joke was on us outside, still standing in the cold.

So the other day, even though it was still nippy temperature-wise, I had a little peak into Claire Jones, a newly opened and very charming boutique near my school. What was meant to be only a peak turned into a little buy: two tee-shirts by Alternative Apparel Vintagesoft (sooo comfy, and long enough, thank god. I had never heard of them before, but apparently they are a thing, as well as being cute and cheap). And a lovely melon-colored multi-functional tube-thingy, that can be either billowy tube-top (do those have a name?) or bubble skirt.

I haven’t worn the melon top yet, but it is sitting in my drawer, its bright optimism singing to warm summer nights to come. And what do you know, it actually seems to be getting warmer. See, shopping works!

The purchase I’m about to tell you about was actually made by my mother, probably over 30 years ago now. It is this fabulous, floral-issimo, polyester-issimo, pantsuit that I found in the attic. My mother called it a “hostess suit.”

I was frantically looking for a Halloween costume on Saturday, and was overjoyed to open a box in the back of a closet and have its bold lime and orange pattern jump out of the darkness at me. I am terrible at Halloween costumes. I mean they have to be so high-concept these days, like going as “The Walk of Shame” or a “Bachelorette Party.” It is totally not acceptable anymore to go as a “cowgirl” – minimum it would have the be a “Cowgirl-Killer Zombie”or “Paris Hilton on the Simple Life.” We are all so post-modern.

The stakes are perhaps even higher at art school. We throw the best party on campus for Halloween, in this fantastic huge old industrial space where the sculptors work. Some people go all out on amazing costumes – my favorite last year was a perfect Edward Scissorhands, and this year there was some sort of zork-creature straight out of Lord of the Rings. Oh, and my friend Rebecca who went as Nicole Richie. A girl who regularly wears no make-up, she was so utterly transformed, she was disguised in plain site – nobody recognized her.

So back to me and my hostess suit, thanks to Mom, I went as a Desperate Housewife, circa 1970. I figure Eva Longoria and co. have no monopoly on that role. I accessorized with a martini glass, a bottle of prescription pills, ironed hair and a middle part, and was more Sigourney Weaver in Ice Storm. The best thing was that the hostess suit was made for dancing, so I was comfy comfy comfy as I boogied the night away.

As my lovely friend Bernadette mentioned, she works at a fantastic company called ASOS (”As Seen on Screen”) Basically, they cull the tabloids and source cheap versions of things that celebs have been photographed wearing. “Celebrity” of course having an elastic definition, and mainly seeming to focus on tabloid princesses like Nicole Richie & co

Now, B. gets a 40% discount on all the clothes the company sells, which include a selection of nice brands in addition to their own label stuff, so she can be forgiven for piles of clothes that spill out of her closet and overstuff her drawers. The funniest purchase, though, was this jumpsuit, which she modeled for me when I was over at her house recently:

This jumpsuit is a mosh up of a varsity jacket with Ronald McDonald’s outfit. It is a backless yet hooded one-piece, maroon and yellow, with fuzzy striped athletic bands at the waist and leg hems (which are cropped). The best part of it is the varsity letter-styled “RW” patch on the left lapel, standing of coarse for its maker, RocaWear. I have never seen anything like it, which shows you just about how cool I am. I love it when I get a window in to “what the kids are up to these days.”

B. explained that last time she had gone to the break-dancing championships in Brixton, she had felt a little out of place. Not because she is a tall, gorgeous Hungarian, but because she was wearing heels instead of trainers. (”Nobody is checking out your outfit – they are just looking down at what trainers you are wearing.”) This year she wanted to wear something more appropriate, to blend in more – hence the Golden Arches majorette ensemble.

Well, cheers to ridiculous jumpsuits – most of us take ourselves far too seriously and could use more furry varsity letters past the age of 18. And cheers to the fact that you can go native in the sub-culture of your choosing with the purchase of a carefully chosen new outfit.

In case it is not obvious (oops – haven’t done the “about me” section yet) I am an American in London. I lived here for several years, then repatriated last September to do an MFA back in the good ol’ US of A, at Yale. But I am back in London for the summer, and living on fantastic Portobello Road, yes, two doors down from *that* famous blue door where Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts got it on the movie that made this neighborhood the icon of gentrified bohemianism that it is.

So, somewhat ironic that I take the first flight out of my country after term is over, only to go shopping in American Apparel in Notting Hill. Never-the-less, as recently noted on Adventures of an Urban Socialite, there is nothing like the pleasure of a fantastic, basic tee-shirt, especially on a lazy summer day. Wandering down through the market yesterday to my favorite coffee shop (Coffee Plant, fyi) it was one of those breathtaking days when even the most dour, cynical souls must practically skip down the street will delight in being alive – sunny, clear, not too hot, and just fresh and luscious. Now, Coffee Plant just happens to be next door to American Apparel, and on such a day, an American Apparel tee is all you want. Basically, they are straight out of the 70s, bright block colors, terry cloth, and all – even down to the less-than-subtle insinuations of child-porn and misdemeanor in the back of the family’s ‘wood’ paneled station wagon.

The beautiful thing about a beautiful day is that they are timeless – you could be thirteen or thirty. Or rather, if you are thirty, a fresh beautiful day feels the same as it did when you were thirteen. Summer vacation, lawn sprinklers, ice cream trucks and all. American Apparel’s slightly slutty ingenue next door feel is exactly the thing – it allows you to dress up your adult sexuality in the guise of budding, blushing adolescent nubiousness. In American Apparel you are the naughty babysitter, inviting boys over and smoking in the basement while she’d supposed to be watching the kids, or saucy counter girl at the local ice cream shop, serving more than scoops.

Ah, those were the days. Of course, I had to buy a couple small reminders of them – one in lilac, and one in pea green.

This all started a couple of weeks ago, with a divine little Marc Jacobs jacket. What is it about Marc? He makes me go wild.

Here is the jacket:

It is white on white seersucker fabric, lined with that innocent little daisy pattern that he uses. The cut – delicate narrow little shoulders, slightly high-waisted and belling out – makes you feel precious and girly. And the BIG BUTTONS! The buttons are what really make it: these sort of 40s looking, big off-white shiny plastic numbers, with brass lining the holes. It all makes you feel about 10 years old, a little Eloise living at the Plaza in New York, saucily skipping down the street with a big striped lolly, as you effortlessly wrap the world around your little finger…

Of course, its also hard to think of Marc Jacobs without thinking of his muse Sophia Coppolla. What modern girl wouldn’t mind having a bit more of what Sophia’s got? Growing up acting in the films of one of the world’s most famous directors, who just happens to be, oh, dad? A seamless transition into director, Ocsar nomination, marriage to cuter-than-can-be Spike Jonze? (sorry that didn’t work out, but I guess being a young divorcee is stylish as well, as is having a child with a French rocker). Not to mention generally being regarded as one of the it-est, chic-est girls on the west side of the Atlantic… Hell, if Sophia loves Marc – if she’s going to lounge around in pools and hotel rooms taking grainy photos wearing nothing more than his perfume – then if I didn’t already love Marc, I’d love him now.

So, you understand the attraction of this jacket. I had seen it just a couple of days before in another shop, where it had broken my heart because it was one size too small. Then all of a sudden, there I was at the Selfridges SALE, and they had ONE LEFT in the RIGHT SIZE! Tell me such a gift from the heavens is possible to refuse. It is not, I know you understand.

I wasn’t quite as sure that my boyfriend, Earnest, would understand. He always wanted me to spend my money on pedestrian things like rent and the water bill. Never mind, I said, he’ll get over it when he sees how darling I look in the jacket, besides it will go perfectly with my skinny Earnest Sewn (no relation to the boyf!) jeans, I reasoned, and handed over the credit card.