The Brand Game
The day before Christmas, I went down with fever and flu. This is the first case of the year, and came when I was so close to having a flu/fever-free year too. In early May I had a bout of nausea that lasted almost two weeks but that was attributed to the raw ox tongue that I ate during an ill-advised but adventurous dinner. Nothing that a Motilium (free ad) couldn’t cure.
I woke up at 2.46am in the morning with a scratchy throat and mucus running down my face. I took a Zyrtec (another free ad) and then went back to sleep knowing that I would wake up with a fantastic headache and stuffy nose. At 4pm the fever broke so I woke up and took a long shower. At 7.30pm I went out to have dinner at Black Canyon Coffee before malaise took over rendering me absolutely useless for the rest of the night, so I went home and got into bed.
I wore a Versace Jeans Couture top and an el-cheapo black jeans. Let me tell you: there is absolutely no difference between wearing the ridiculously pricey top and one that cost me RM5 at the pasar malam. The Versace top did not complain that it was paired with a no-name jeans. I didn’t look any thinner. The only difference, as far as I could tell, is that my wallet is few hundred ringgit lighter.
I remember an episode of Sex and The City where Jack Berger was told to buy a Prada silk shirt. He looked at the price tag and yelped "Does that come with a house?". The shop assistant protested "Yes, but you will wear this forever."
If only you could go through the rest of your life wearing the same burgundy shirt over and over again til the day you cross over to the great beyond…. Plus, wearing the same shirt countless times, even if it IS a Prada, will only make you look cheap - which is exactly the thing you try to avoid when you buy the Prada at the first place.
Who are we kidding, no?
There is a girl in my office that is an absolute fashionista. Carrie Bradshaw has nothing on her. Everything about her screams expensive, from the lipstick that she puts on her voluptuous lips to the chic belts she wears around her 25" waist. I hitched a ride in her car once and her trunk was full with shoe boxes from big names, so big that the value of the shoes alone is probably 3 times her monthly salary.
Unsurprisingly, the rumour mills work overtime when it comes to her. People speculate that she has her lips done and that she has a generous, erm, ‘benefactor’ to help her with her expenses. No one would entertain the thought that maybe this girl is simply a person who spends all her salary and bonuses and savings on expensive clothes. I mean, I spend about RM500 a month buying books and magazines alone. That same RM500 could have easily gotten me a decent Armani top. RM3000 can certainly get me more Armani tops although it means I will be reduced to drinking plain water and eating one Papa Roti Bun every day for the rest of the month. It’s all a matter of choice really. I am sure many can’t imagine spending RM500 every month on books but I do so there you go.
But anyway, I can’t help but wonder about all these girls who wear DKNY diamond bracelets and Guess baguette bags, yak on the latest Nokia or Treo (or whatever phone model that is trendy that month) and compare war stories about getting that last pair of Christian Louboutin or Jimmy Choos. Mind you, I am no fashion moron. I harbour dreams of owning a Tag Heuer Aquaracer and a Tiffany Atlas Ring just as much as the next tai-tai. But to spend that much energy and effort on making sure you are garbed head to toe in expensive acronyms is just, well, exhausting. Isn’t it saner to choose an article of clothing (shoes, earrings, silk underwears, whathaveyous) simply because it looks good on you? It must take a really strong will and even stronger stomach (since you will be fasting for the rest of the time to fit into those tiny clothes) to be able to part with several thousand ringgit of one’s hard-earned moolah every month to satisfy these fashion cravings.
As my Versace Jeans Couture top would attest to: it is all in the head. No one else cares. Not even your best friend. Unless her name is Victoria Beckham.
