In the past, I’ve had several great jobs, and my wardrobe reflects them. Now I wish I had spent less and perhaps I could be saying that my co-op reflects my past good jobs, and not the clothes I am now trying to sell.
My hands being full, I need to maneuver free an arm to open the door at Designer Resale. The bored looking clothes specialist is in no hurry to help. She is saving her energy for the vigorous inspection that will soon follow.
She goes by the name LC. The process begins with LC hanging the clothes that are still in cleaning bags; these range in size from 2 to 10, with most on the low end. Before I was heavy, I was petite. I feel overweight just looking at some of my old clothes. Next, LC readies herself for the fun part of the job, the inspection. She puts to shame those federally trained people at the airports.
LC meticulously evaluates, inside and out, every piece of clothing. She sorts without speaking, so I begin to ask. “What’s wrong with blah blah blah?”
“Well, this one has yellowing around the neck.”
She points out a speck of yellow, around the size of a pinhead, on a blouse I’ve worn once.
“I’m sorry, this brand we don’t carry.”
What? This she is saying about my once-worn black velvet dress that I bought at a small and expensive Soho Boutique. I feel so bad for the dress, I am compelled to defend it. “I’m sorry,” LC says, “but we have a lot of clothes right now and can only take Gucci, Fendi, Prada and the like.” I look around and see an unstylish Max Mara suit hanging. She follows my eyes. “We’ve been told by the owner that we have too many dresses right now. Try back in a month and maybe we can take it then.”
“This one has a smudge.”
A nearly microscopic lipstick mark on a beautiful cream-colored Calvin Klein skirt would come off with one swipe of Tide-to Go. I’m sure that doesn’t matter. LC is enjoying her power.
By the time she is done, I feel deflated. I leave, arms still full, with 13 pieces.
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