Givenchy, now under designer du jour Riccardo Tisci’s reign, held a 90 percent off private sale last week. And before that, the press sale, in which my friend Alvin and I giddily offered our credit cards for pillaging. Alvin, being a celebrity stylist/makeup artist, is a veteran, and went through the battle plans on the cab ride to Quarry Bay: “Grab anything that strikes your fancy, stuff it into the big plastic bag, then stake a corner, preferably one with a mirror, and then try them on.” When we got to Dorset House, we bumped into The Divia, who charitably allowed us to follow her. Entering the showroom, we discovered that most of the fashion whores had already started the looting. The competition was absolutely feral. OLs, tai-tais and stylistas from the 18th level of hell (I’m following the Chinese Buddhist hell tradition, not the Italian Dante hell). You know, those editorial hobags who act like you’re completely invisible when you bump into them at a fashion show or press preview. And then the bitches pit their photographers against yours to see who’ll take the pictures first. Oh my lord, fighting with vultures is total cardio workout—I was completely exhausted within 20 minutes.
A fierce green bag caught my eye, amidst a sea of nondescript brown handbags and icky non-Tisci messenger bags for... messengers. It was in a vivid dark emerald green, a crinkly patent leather version of the majestically titled “George V,” a sumptuous shopper tote with long, wide in-built handles and the tai-tai tassels replaced with a more masculine metallic badge. It beckoned me with subtle psychic messages: “Buy meh.” I asked Alvin if I should get the green or the sunshiny yellow. “Green of course. It’s so FIERCE. And so you.” The bag proceeded to shriek, “BUY MEEE!!!” Bought.
Before I decided to rock my green Givenchy for Avey’s and Frances’ separate birthday parties on the weekend, I deliberately left it at home in its dust bag and ignored for three days. Just an exercise in nonattachment—I came to the realization that every time I acquire a brand name bag, it usurps my center. That is, instead of merely enhancing my innate happiness and confidence, it BECOMES The Source of my confidence. It’s like this unholy transference of my own inner sanctity to an outside object—in this case, a piece of dead cow skin sewn together.
That happened when I got my square-riffic Gucci portfolio. Or my summer LV canvas beach (and one’s from Shenzhen, not Europe). After I started carrying it around, I just HAD to have it, day in, day out. And I found it nearly impossible to revert to my cool but otherwise brand-less bags. So this time, a little bit older, I told my Givenchy bag “BP,STFU.”
On Friday, desperately trying not to show off, it was our IT guy Derek who noticed my Givenchy first: “OMG what a cool color!” In the elevator, in close quarters with my bag, our omnipotent Managing Editor was startled and compelled to utter: “That bag is fierce.” At Habitat Lounge, all of Frances’ girlfriends mentioned, “Does your bag have to be so beautiful?!?” and then at Avey’s outside Linq, my buyer friend Nari asked to see what I got at Givenchy. I threw my shet hot bag dramatically on the table. “I hate you,” she hissed. I felt so fine, and I haven’t been able to leave the Givenchy at home ever since.