A short story of sticking it out and broke, bed-stuy girl shopping.

chanel

written by WHITNEY BRODRIBB

Not quite sure if sitting in a cafe in the West Village is the best thing to do when you’re anything less than a millionaire… Every Burberry bag that walks by is a stab in the chest. Still, as a masochist, I’ll anyways continue to imagine all the gorgeous boots and jackets and accessories I can’t afford… Accessories are my favorite.

“OH MY GOD, a glass of wine is how much?” Do you do half glasses?”

Needless to say, I need to become a Goddamn genius or land me a (one second, shout out to husband) Sugar Daddy to support my shopping habit.

With an arrival in NY via London in October 2012, it wasn’t the ideal time to begin job searching, or at least that’s what I told myself. If I were being honest, I didn’t have shit for experience, but I’m a purveyor of the famous motto, “Fake it til’ you make it.” Thankfully, I now have a wonderful job in the bag. Still, if only I could buy the bag and fill it up with all the goodies that come with the winter season… New scarves. Boots. Fur boots. Boots with the fur.  (I never wear fur, but I imagine the rich me would love it.)

(Another thing I notice while sitting in the window of this Café, is all the gorgeous model-esque-men with dogs that walk by. Sorry husband, it’s OK. It doesn’t count if they’re all gay.)

Speaking of affording a better life, once you get through the hard stuff that comes with a move, you get to move out of the ghetto. Or, at least that’s what I did. That pathetic-excuse-for-a-human property manager was like, “This is East Williamsburg and $1600 is totally normal for a room.” Yeah, no, we were in Bed-Stuy and any extra cash went to purchasing a zappy taser. Not only did I feel like I stood out, I actually did. There wasn’t a blonde for miles and my Swedish ancestry makes it a little hard to disguise the fact that I’m the whitest that white people come. So, aside from wearing hats, I spent most of my time indoors because I was broke as a joke. It only took about three weeks to start resembling a character from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or The Shining — both great Nicholson movies; both about psychos and I could, and sometimes still can, definitely relate.

OK. Back to the point, which I don’t even know I’ve made yet. The point is: stick it out.

I may not be able to afford all of the luxuries that I incessantly pretend I can on Pinterest; but I have moved up from H&M to Zara and from Bed-Stuy to Bushwick. Those are wins in my book.

I guess the other point we learn here is: set your bar low. Shit ain’t going to happen overnight. And, if it does, I will punch you. I’ve made it past the bad parts, and I made it out alive, twice. Moving to London was the worst thing I’ve ever done in terms of learning life’s little lessons, but still, it was also the best thing I could have ever done in terms of learning life’s little lessons. Then I did it again when I moved to New York. Seriously, I’m like an emotional cutter; why would I keep doing that to myself? For a dude, obviously. I know what you’re thinking, “It’s different when you’re married, it’s not as pathetic. Dick.”

Stick it out, pay your bills, hold your breathe until it’s over, party in between and everything will be fine. I promise. (Seriously, did everyone get the cutest coat in the world this year? Where’s that knife?) As much as I’ve enjoyed writing this little ditty, I must go. It’s after 5 p.m. and I don’t have a glass of wine in my hand yet.

Oh, now I do. *smile. Thank you sexy waiter guy who is probably an out-of-work actor.

[featured background image via Andrew Sylvestor, all other images via tumblr]

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