Back in the spring, Cory and I snuck away to Chicago for two blissful nights. Traipsing around the West Loop on our first afternoon, we stumbled on an Anthropologie store. Staring at one of their artsy window displays is the retail equivalent of drinking a mimosa - it means I’m on vacation, or at least in a vacation state of mind. I wandered inside, even though I know there’s less than a 10% chance I’ll buy anything.
How did I know this?
Well, for one, I’ve come to realize their aesthetic and my “aesthetic” no longer match, and maybe never have. Let the reader understand - I love browsing their shops, their catalog, and sometimes, even their website. It’s art, all of it, mass produced, sure, but also quirky and beautiful. In terms of sheer inspiration, it’s like visiting a gallery or museum.
Second, their prices are straight bananas. It almost feels like a joke. Last winter I had a work trip to Indy and took Ruby and her bestie, Addison with me. Naturally, two seventeen year olds were drawn to the allure of the Fashion Mall. Two feet into an Anthro, Addison picked up a cute pair of pink jeans (see: not my aesthetic), dropped them like like they were literally hot, and left the store. The Anthro mentality is…unsustainable. Unnatural. Unreasonable. As long as I’ve been conscious of Anthropologie in this modern world, I’ve wondered who on God’s green earth pays full price for their wares? Who are the women carrying multiple items to the cash wrap1? Where do they take their donations after pink jeans give them the yawns?
Anyway! Chicago!
I strolled around, spotting a few graphic t’s I’d wear if they weren’t priced at $882. I gawked at lush maxi-dresses in hello! color palettes and recalled with fondness that I used to think I was a floral girlie. I found a shirt with an interesting green trim stitched down the sleeve and basked in the 90’s nostalgia of rugby stripes. Right then and there, on their aged hardwoods, I pulled out my phone and mapped the nearest Goodwill.
I walked directly to and through its doors, into the humid cacophony of secondhand chaos, smack dab in the gentrified heartbeat of Midwestern wealth and consumption.
Was it a Goodwill? Or a Madewell factory store? I couldn’t tell.
I stayed for two hours.
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