I had a weird epiphany today.
I was standing in the vintage store, waiting for Daniel finish up (he was trying on blazers). I was slowly working my way through the long rack of purses. I found three fake Louis Vuittons, two real and seven fake Coach bags, one real Prada and a very pretty, albeit completely counterfeit Burberry.
Two women came along behind me and one positively squealed. I glanced her way and she was holding the Burberry bag up to show her friend.
Oh my God, she said. It's fifty dollars but I'll never find a better price!
Geez, fifty dollars? That's really expensive! There go your groceries. Her friend said. Maybe you should think about it.
I love it! What a good price though, this would be two hundred in the store!
(More like twelve hundred, I think to myself, if it were real.)
I'm going to get it! She hugged it close. I wanted to turn around and tell her it was a knock-off, show her the cheap leather trim, the painted zipper, the imperfect stitches but then I thought to myself maybe fifty bucks is the price for her happiness.
She'll be so happy with her faux designer handbag it won't matter if it's not real, or if it cost her a week's grocery money, or whatever. Maybe that's all it takes.
When Daniel was ready to go I followed him to the checkout, and I told the clerk the cost of the Burberry and said I wanted to buy it for the woman but I didn't want her to know it was paid for until we've left. Daniel just stared at me and I looked at him and said,
I used to be her.
We walked out into the sun, and I realized it's completely true. Happiness costs fifty fucking dollars.
