I was having a lovely little lunch at Nordstrom Cafe at Scottsdale Fashion Square about two Saturdays ago. For those who don't know, this is customary for me; I love to treat myself to the Mixed Berries & Greens Salad and a glass of red wine; its a well deserved and much appreciated afternoon lunch that's healthy, light, and delish. (Nordstrom has to be one of my favorite places for this reason. I can go to the spa, hit up the best makeup counters, shop 3 levels of apparel nirvana, and still stop and have a nutritious meal and a glass of wine under one roof. Whoever invented the concept? Is seriousy my long lost twin sister.)Now, usually I do this alone. In fact, the people who work there know me by name. It is usually very pleasant, a place where I can regroup and clear my head.
This particular Saturday, however, I was seated across from a group of 8 year old girls. I knew they were 8, because the loud mouth of the group proudly announced she had just celebrated her 8th birthday. They were wearing makeup. They were wearing cutting edge shoes and each of them had a designer handbag. Now, I'm all about people supporting designers and pumping much needed cashflow back into the economy. Duh, I write a fashion blog, c'mon. I am not, however, in favor of indulging little girls with such niceties when they are not even aware of the value of a dollar.
I found myself intrigued by their conversation, their banter, their language and lingo, the pre-teen speak of this new generation. Enamored by the purses they carried that I, at 27, could afford to buy, but wouldn't ALLOW myself to buy, I momentarily paused and wondered if one day, I would spoil my own daughters like that after I'd become wealthy. Would we go to spa days together? Would I give her $100 and tell her to treat her friends to a lovely little lunch at Nordies, on me?
As I heard the very obvious "leader" or "queen bee" of the group talk to her friends, monopolozing the conversation, I overheard her talking about things that I most definitely would never want my daughter to talk about. EVER. Things like oral sex, and a girl who "lost hers" this summer, because she "didn't think she could wait" and "her parents were away on a trip to Sedona." My jaw just about dropped. On her feet were Tory Burch sandals, the ones I've wanted to buy that cost close to $200. She was digging through the Louis Vuitton handbag I've been lusting over for quite some time, pulling out photos of her friends at their last 'party,' and talking about how so-and-so had smuggled in a bottle of Grey Goose in her oversized Balenciaga bag. W..T..F.
I started thinking back to the days of my innocence. Days when life was simple. I had to shop at less desirable places. Ladies days out with my Mom consisted of shopping at Target and Mervyn's and if you were LUCKY, you got to buy a top or pair of jeans at Dillard's, and that was an
indulgence. I wore Old Navy flip flops in high school, and in junior high, my big sister and I begged our grandfather for his old flannel shirts so that we could work that whole grunge look. Everything was hand-me-downs and haircuts cost $10 and they were usually done in my hairdresser sister-in-law's kitchen. My friends and I didn't get money to go to Nordstrom Cafe for lunch, we were lucky to get Dilly Bars from Dairy Queen. We weren't having sex; damn, at 8 years old, I didn't even know what an orgasm was. Hell, I knew girls I went to ASU with who had never known what an orgasm was, much less what one felt like. Times were far less complicated, conversation much less, well, R-rated.
I thought about the Louis Vuitton speedy bag that rested on top of her table. The smart mouth little self-important bitch with her parent's credit cards and spoiled attitude may have had a bag that was the equivalent to 3 of my car payments. But what I had was so much better. I had experienced what it was like to be innocent.
I had actually been a kid.
As I got up from the table, smoothed down my skirt (which I incidentally had purchased,on my own,with my hard-earned money, at Nordstrom) and stood up straight in my Diane von Furstenberg top, I looked down at my own handbag, the one I had worked my ass off to be able to purchase for myself, as a treat. Everything I had, I
appreciated. I appreciated it, because I remember what it felt like to be a little girl with stars in her eyes, wanting pretty things, but knowing nobody, not Mom, not Dad, and most certainly, not a man, would buy them for me--I had to earn those things on my own.
As I threw on my Ray Bans, I glanced down my nose at the little girls, and they turned to look at me. I looked like, on the outside, a woman who had made it. They didn't know that I had ever struggled. The labels I wore covered the hard times I had gone through. They had no clue that I am a teacher, and that I live on a budget. They looked up to me for the wrong reasons; for what was on the outside. But
inside this woman with a Fendi handbag is the little girl who worked for what she has, who had a childhood, and who never sold her soul to get to where she wanted to be. Maybe those girls looked up to me for the Prada and the DVF, but those are only names. MY NAME, and my integrity, is what defines me. And I got that integrity because, as a little girl,
I was just raised right.
And in that instant, I knew that little girl with the Louis Vuitton bag? Her purse and wallet may have been full. But her life was really empty. She may have had the purse I was lusting after, and it may have cost her parents over a thousand dollars. But what I have, inside myself, is priceless.
And at the end of the day, I think that's better than anything money can buy.
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