About a month ago, some friends and I decided to have ourselves a Sunday Funday. We had brunch and enough mimosas to forget about our troubles (i.e. love handles, maxed out credit cards and too many Friday nights spent devouring frozen pizza). Then we did what most girls do after a bit of day drinking – we went to Neiman Marcus to check out the high-end shoe buffet. After trying on a pair of too-small Brian Atwood’s (wailing shoe Sales Associate – “They’ll stretch!”) we went to the next wallet-killer… clutches and purses. After ho-humming at the newest Balenciaga’s, we made our way to a designer whom I never really followed in the handbag world before – Stella McCartney.

Photo from Neiman Marcus

When I spied the black faux-fur Falabella tote, I finally understood how Paris felt when seeing Helen of Sparta for the first time. My intense stare was enough for my friends to step back in respect as “X,” the elegant and attentive Sales Associate, put the bag gently on my shoulder and pointed me towards the nearest mirror. A silence fell as parents hushed their children and the b*tchy chatter behind the make-up counters came to a sudden still. This bag was more me than my DNA codons. As I twirled in delight, my eyes fell upon a shopper’s greatest foe – the price tag. My heart fell, and my cheeks flushed with shame as I handed the bag back to “X.” For as much as I wanted the Falabella, a Helen of Sparta to call my own, I unfortunately had paid some attention in History class. Just as Paris had once faced the wrath of the Spartans, I knew I would face the wrath of my parents when I would have to ask for rent money. And frankly, at the $1,545.00 price, let’s not kid ourselves – I would probably end up asking for two months.

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