It’s a feeling that you can’t get from the mindless scroll of The RealReal or overnight delivery from Net a Porter in those sterile vans. The internet has consumed us all, and shopping has largely become a solo, screen aided activity. And in a way, it feels lonely. In my own life, there are rarely any shopping bags. The corner of my kitchen is a sepulcher of sliced and diced brown boxes that once held vintage clothes that I bought from eBay or Poshmark don’t spark the same joy. Sometimes, I’ll receive a gift from a brand, glamorously messengered over in a branded shopping bag a small cry of, “We’re here! Remember us?” With a shopping bag, everyone is on a mission. Everyone is in a moment. Present. Perhaps, the idea of physically shopping and the booty that comes with that act represents another dimension a temporary reprieve from boring responsibilities and reality.
I don’t think I am living when I am buying online. Am I having an experience when I shop via the Internet? No, I’m plugging in my credit card behind a screen and tracking DHL shipment on my phone. I always say clothes should have a story. I can muse on and on about the history of a Tom Ford era Gucci skirt I got online for a discounted steal, but how much story can a piece of clothing have when it’s plucked from an LED screen? Suddenly I’m craving clothes that have my own memories attached to them. I felt like I was on a high with this massive shopping bag on my arm that somehow propelled me further into the city. There was so much space to fill so much to see.
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