Here I was, catching my breath, reclining in the driverseat of one the fastest cars in the world, parked out in front of the recently re-opened and relocated Dolce & Gabbana flagship store in the most expensive shopping area in the capital of the country of my exile, with shop personnel (all male this time, one Indonesian, one Italian, one Dutch, all as gay as they come in this trade) ready to welcome me in the feminine hotspot of grace and luxury, which their employment got them as close to as they could ever hope to get. It opened to me twenty minutes ahead of opening time to ensure I was received with appropriate distinction and discrete from stray walk-ins that have no other business (and bringing none) than to imagine they would be buying the collection – classy backdrop for the selfies they take before they are politely walked out the door by a security person (typically a straight man, wholly unfazed by the environment, making him the sexiest person in your vicinity, because you will feel fatuous and insignificant, a woman in need of discipline) – that is clearly beyond their budget no less than their grasp of couture and ability to wear it.
Before exiting the car to face the welcoming committee, I contemplated my life so far. Cyclic. This is where I was 12 years ago (except that the car wasn’t as fast for lack of technology). Before that, working towards it. Then, falling from grace. A one and a half year stint as an air hostess. A receptionist for eight months. Clawing my way back in, using the second screen on the front desk, connected to my own tablet, to hammer out gas offtake agreements, advisory memos, etc., and to manage what was left of my investments. Drawing the attention of some powerful people of an investment company that occupied office space in one of the three business centers that I was assigned to (9 hours a day, three days at A, two at B, one – Saturday – at C) owing to my ability to make the receptionist uniform, consisting of a cheap pencil skirt (dark blue), cheap blouse (polar white), cheap waistcoat (dark blue), cheap jacket (dark blue), look like it was a suit a CFO wears on her way to close a deal. Back in the game soon after.
I opened the door of my car without looking first. A speed cyclist shouted words that must not go to print. On the merits, the potbellied flat-assed asshole in his off-putting outfit had a point. I silently praised myself for being of a milder disposition to fuckfaced strangers than I used to be. But then it occurred to me that this might be a sign that I’m regressing, and I decided to hold that thought for further examination. Among the three was my personal shopper (or so he had positioned himself over the past two years), the wastefully handsome Italian. I knew they would have been bitching over who was to show the new collections to me – well, the Italian of course. But could the Dutchman slip in a piece, say the sundress in the Flowering Collection? Could the beardless Indonesian with the perfect skin offhandedly tip off the Swarovski embellished Taormina lace pumps? It’s about bonuses, of course. But not just the bonuses. It is also, and to no negligible degree, about the thrill of fussing with fabric, zippers, and hook-and-eye fastenings. Hell, even I prefer the feel of a Dolce & Gabbana charmeuse midi pencil skirt with silk lining (Mambo Collection) swishing around my calves over a man being all over all of me.
I hug the Italian. I exchange floppy handshakes with his supposedly backstabbing colleagues. I had told him I would arrive with a budget as I would be traveling to NYC next week – meaning splurges at Bergdorff Goodman, Sachs on Fifth, the boutiques on Fifth, Madison, E 57th – but knowing in advance, as did the Italian, that the budget would miraculously tally with the sum total of the retail prices of ninety percent of the pieces he would suggest I try on. From the age I could even reflect on such things, I haven’t been able to figure out what it was with clothes and me. Just that the issue may be summed up in my response to a friend, to whom I said, when I had told her I had an appointment to try on the Dolce & Gabbana’s FW 24/25 collection on which she had commented “Oh, of course, you don’t have enough already!“: “The question is not do I have enough, but is there room for more?” I have a distaste of transvestites, but I guess I might have needed to be one had I been formed with a different set of chromosomes.
There was closure. I hadn’t progressed. I never would. I was an addict who would keep using her talent and drive to succeed to earn the money to sustain the habit. Which is the definition of life, with just the addiction varying. I would not delude myself: no human being was deserving of the respect that I denied myself.
The nymphs escorting, I stepped inside for the consummation.
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Hard Nosed Women 