Spreadsheet
| September 26, 2023Honestly, I can’t keep track of Dalia’s wardrobe, even though she’s forever posting pictures of her new purchases on our family chat
Dalia is caressing a YSL crossbody bag as if it’s a newborn baby.
“Have you ever felt anything so soft and supple? And look at the stitching! It’s like a piece of art, no? Like a sculpture!”
She hands it to me, and, to be polite, I give the bag a little pat. “You’re a terrible saleswoman.”
“And you’re a totally aggravating shopper.” Dalia puts her hands on my shoulders and swings me around, so that I’m looking at myself in the full-length mirror. Behind me, a newly-married wearing five gold bangles and a band fall down to her waist is angling around me to peer at herself with a Gucci scarf slung around her neck.
Dalia holds the bag up to my shoulder. “Picture yourself walking into the office with this. You’d blow Shelley’s mind with jealousy.”
I make a face. “What I’d blow is my chance to ask her for a raise.”
Dalia waves her hand. “Au contraire. People respect women who dress well.”
I give a brief, curious glance at myself. Does a leather bag with a designer price really improve my image? Personally, I’m not seeing it.
“You know, Shaina,” she continues, “you’re allowed to let yourself just enjoy life every now and then instead of always looking at the price tag.”
My fingers dig into the tote’s soft and supple leather. Who said I don’t enjoy my life? Then I look at the price tag — and nearly drop the bag. “This costs twelve hundred dollars!”
“Ah, but it’s forty percent off.”
She says it as if DeLuxe Accessories is giving the stuff away for free.
“Do you know how much forty percent of twelve hundred dollars is?” I demand. She shrugs, as I whip out my calculator. “Four hundred and eighty dollars. That’s how much you get off. Which means you’re still paying” — I do another calculation, this time in my head — “seven hundred and twenty dollars. For a bag. If I wanted it so badly, I’d buy a knockoff.”
“You can always tell,” she says.
“I can’t.”
My cousin rolls her eyes. Clearly, she isn’t referring to fashion-challenged people like me. Nevertheless, she admits defeat and slings the bag over her own shoulder instead, examining herself critically in the mirror.
“Hmm, what do you think?”
“Don’t you already have, like, five pocketbooks?”
“Six.” She grins impishly at me. “But this peach would go so well with my new Louboutin shoes, wouldn’t it?”
Honestly, I can’t keep track of Dalia’s wardrobe, even though she’s forever posting pictures of her new purchases on our family chat.
“Umm,” I mumble.
She rolls her eyes. “You. Are. Hopeless.”
Poor Dalia; of all of the siblings or cousins she could have ended up in the same community with, she got stuck with me.
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