By Amari D. Pollard
I’m a label whore. That’s right. I whore it up around town, always in search of a fix. Men, women, old flames, new flames, I don’t discriminate—we all understand what I need.I can usually be found floating between the racks in Saks or Bloomingdales or Lord & Taylor, on special occasions even Century 21 in the city. Sometimes the process of choosing is extensive. One must never rush when it comes to deciding who will be taken home, especially if it’s a day when the pickings are subpar. You want to make sure your not taking home any diseases; they’re hard to get rid of. Nevertheless, my lovers, they’re always there, always in the same places. They know I’m coming. So they listen and wait, wait to see whom I’ll try on for the day.
There’s Oscar. He’s the man you dream about your whole life. Professional, polished, romantic. He’s unique, rare, the kind of man you save for special occasions, mainly evening events. He makes me feel more like a woman than any man I have ever known.
There’s Rebecca. She has this way of resurrecting the innocence I thought was permanently suppressed, buried deep within the crevices of the stony thing that thumps against my chest—Oh yeah, my heart. She has a gift. I save her for when I’m feeling whimsical and want to feel extra feminine.
There’s Kate. What can I say that could possibly summarize the influence she has on me? Well, with her, I feel classic.
And then there’s Marc. Ah! Marc. He was my first, and will probably be my last. He has this way of molding himself to fit my body, and who doesn’t love a man who’s willing to make adjustments for his woman? He brings out the best sides of me—preppy and edgy.
I love my labels. I know I shouldn’t, and yet I continue to buy clothes based on the designer. It’s actually pretty sad and ridiculous.
The other day I was cleaning out my closet [you know it’s time to clean out your closet when you have to rent out room in your sister’s], rummaging through my excessive collection, and I realized its incredible the amount of clothes I never wore and didn’t even like when I bought them. I had to get rid of a pair of Valentino pants! It was so difficult. I finally just had to admit to myself that they were too small, and I would never fit them—I didn’t even fit into the pants when I bought them.
I think I became obsessed with brands around the age of twelve, when I started reading The Clique series [books filled with rich girls obsessed with labels]. After reading the series, I felt this need to be like those wealthy teenagers, to surround myself with expensive and luxurious things. It has gotten to the point where I sometimes buy unappealing clothes, especially if they’re on sale for a great price, because of the brand. I find a way to convince myself I look good in them, when it is clear they do nothing for my body.
I may have issues when it comes to clothing brands, but a lot of the world has an unhealthy obsession with labels. Whether it’s with food, jewelry, technology, we’re all guilty of it. Some people only buy name brand cereal like General Mills [I am guilty of that as well], almost every girl at least once in her life says she wants a Tiffany’s wedding ring, and the amount of people who feel the need to only buy Apple products [I once got kicked out of a group chat for not having an iPhone. Apparently it was too much work texting an android user] is absurd.
While not everyone is concerned with labels, some people can’t afford to [myself included, but I ignore the screams of my malnourished bank account], many of us are. Like Madonna sang, “We are living in a material world,” and we are material girls. That’s okay though. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, as long as we can recognize it and try to reduce the amount of money we waste on excessive things that we don’t need.
I’ll even listen to my own advice, and start working on my label addiction. I think it’s time I start distancing myself from Oscar, Rebecca, Kate and Marc…and all the other people I’ve taken home. I’m going to work on myself, and my label whoring ways. Maybe my designer “friends” and I will one day meet again, who knows? But I think my bank account will have to determine that.
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