The Romance of Slow Burn Shopping

On serendipity, freaky little shoes, and delayed gratification.

“Romance is about the possibility of the thing” — Darius Lovehall, Love Jones, 1997 (One of my favorite movies)

Freaky little shoes are my kryptonite, so when I first saw the Céline pirate heels in their 2017 pre-fall collection — a perverse leather, split-toe mule that only covers the big toe and leaves the other phalanges free, ostensibly made for those confident in toeing the line between fetishistic and cerebral  — I needed them. At the time, I was 26, and I knew that even when the shoes were released a few months later it would be impractical to spend over $800 on them. So, instead, I filed them away in my mind’s imaginary closet — next to a pair of 1998 Prada wedges and Comme des Garçon buckle loafers  — with the certainty that they’d eventually be mine. It was like starring in my own rom-com: if the Céline pirate heels were meant to be in my closet, they’d find me under the right conditions. Delusional, I know. But, in January 2020, after three years of daydreaming, they found me, in my size and the perfect conditions: I was a making six-figures as the fashion director at Teen Vogue, the shoes were 30% off, and I had store credit from The Real Real after participating in a social campaign. 

On my feet, there’s something off-puttingly ugly about them. They add a dissonance to even the most conventional outfit. And, like most off-kilter things, they have an idiosyncratic rapport that only the wearer is privy to, or, in other words: the girls that get it, get it. Despite their ghastly appearance, the high arch of the heel and the constant friction of my toes rubbing against the supple leather makes them the sexiest shoes I own. Even the slightest glimpse at them in my closet electrifies my soul—they were worth the wait. 

Shopping, for me, is about chasing this high; an orgy of assured forethought giving in to serendipity. There are always things that I want, things I’m looking for, things that I find beautiful, but the yearning doesn’t always need to be satisfied through immediate acquisition. I’m fickle; one minute I’m sure a jacket I tried on will change my life, and the next day I’ve forgotten about it. Time tests whether the desire is truly mine, once the initial hit of dopamine and allure of outside influences dissipates. 

I like to sleep on it — for a week, a month, one night minimum. I like to spend the day imagining how it might coexist with the things I already own. I like to get dressed and then realize it’s what’s missing. I like to pull out my little blue measuring tape to figure out exactly how it will fit my 5’2 frame. I like to scour the internet for runway videos to see how it moves. I like to go to the store, try on different sizes, and spend 30 minutes in the dressing room, fantasizing. I like to save up for it, rather than buying the next best thing. I like to text my friends who know my closet deeply and often tell me I don’t really need it. Then, finally, if and when the time is right — there’s no formula, just a feeling of certainty — I let it find me and take the plunge. 

When I first started working in fashion, I was constantly buying new things to feel like I belonged, like I worked in fashion and participated in it. In reality, I was really using shopping as a defense mechanism for my insecurities, because I was working in spaces where my colleagues could afford what came down the runway. So I bought and bought, to fill that void. Almost every week, I was buying something new from Zara, H&M, or Forever 21. I was going to sample sales—The Row, Alexander Wang, Opening Ceremony—seeing it as my opportunity to actually own designer pieces, most of which I never wore. I was gifted by brands—Chanel, Fendi, Ganni—often products I didn’t really want or need or that didn’t fit my personal style (with the exception of that one fabulous time Issey Miyake gifted me a white Pleats Please stole.) I was engaging with fashion at its lowest tier — something my fashion-obsessed, annoyingly discerning teenage self would have been embarrassed by. 

One day, I woke up and realized I hated everything in my closet. After all of the shopping, the freebies, the trying to look like I worked in fashion, I had nearly nothing that I actually wanted to keep for longer than three months to show for it. I took stock of what was in my closet, got rid of most things, and decided I wanted to, at the very least, start thinking before I bought something—slowing down, allowing myself to fall in love with anticipation. 

It conjured up memories from my childhood. Anytime my mom would take me shopping, when I found something I loved, she’d always tell me to put it on hold so that I could sleep on it. If I remembered it the next day, we’d go back and get it. If it was more than she could afford at the time, and I continued to mention it, she’d give it to me for Christmas. If I didn’t mention it, my mom never brought it up, likely because I didn’t really want it anyways. At the time, it was so embarrassing to me — I was sure it was because we were broke. With my bratty logic, if we really had the money we’d just buy whatever I wanted. In hindsight, it was a great practice in restraint. 

I love romance movies, especially rom-coms, and the best part of a will-they, won’t-they romance is not the destination, but the slow burn, the time in-between. It’s what makes shopping so enchanting, too. What I think gets lost in the conversation around slow fashion is that you should slow down your buying as well — shopping for better fabrics, second-hand clothing, and higher quality brands at the same rate isn’t any better than exclusively buying fast fashion; both lack intention. Now, I despise, and try to avoid, last minute, impulse shopping; it’s quick and dirty, leaving little time for the in-between to ruminate on how the clothes might fit into the context of my life. It’s almost always a decision I come to regret. Sure, I like to look; I am intimately, almost obsessively, aware of my desires. I keep a running list of things that I think might be nice to have or are missing from my wardrobe — an evening clutch, a pointed-toe 90s black boot, more vintage t-shirts and fancy dresses. I also keep photo albums, by season, with screenshots of things that I’ve found that have sparked my interests. But, often, I find that the beguilement of something new, whether it’s vintage or current season, is tainted by its novelty. 

It makes me embrace the idea of missing out on things I really want, because then the true romance can begin. Sometimes, the romance is kismet, like when you randomly come across something that’s been sold-out or hard to find in your size. Sometimes the romance is ephemeral; It’s always wonderful seeing a well-dressed woman, wearing something I thought I wanted, to  crystallize why it fits her style perfectly, but wasn’t quite right for me. Then, sometimes, unexpectedly, the romance is built into the experience, like the balloon trousers from a Korean brand that I found at a vintage shop in Mexico City, or, as my friend texted me about while I was writing this, an eight-dollar Mugler blazer you find at a garage sale, or, the belaboring process of getting a bespoke suit made to your measurements. 

Oh, how romantic our delusions, obsessions, and the thrill of the pursuit of our desires can be. 

This essay was pretty personal, so I didn’t do a ton of research. But, here is a list of some of my favorite romance movies, to make you feel something. 

• In The Mood for Love:  A romance about yearning and missed opportunities.

• Love Jones: A romance about instant connection and second chances.

• Notting Hill: A romance about the importance of friends telling you when you’ve made a dumb decision, and the beauty of professing your love.

• Mississippi Masala: A romance about chance meetings, cultural differences, and choosing love over everything else.

• I Am Love: A romance that is basically the Italian How Stella Got Her Groove Back.

• The Age of Innocence: A romance that is the best Martin Scorsese movie.

• The Passionate Friends: A romance about the choice between stability and freedom, and true meaning of intimacy.

• Metropolitan: A romance about class, youth, and contradictions.

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