Not the Chanels

A lesson in the real value of material things

I’ve always had a taste for the finer things. My mom often remarks that I can walk into any store, without seeing any price tags, and immediately be drawn to the most expensive item they’ve got. It’s a gift. A dangerous gift.

For most of my young adult life, this “gift” paid off in the form of buying all the fancy stuff that I lusted after but almost certainly could not afford. Probably owing to Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City, I had a particular taste for designer clothes, shoes, and bags without the realization that I had mounds of law school debt and was working in public service (not exactly something you do “for the money”).

About a decade ago, I accompanied a best pal on a trip to New York to celebrate her 30th birthday. While there, we had to hit Bergdorf’s — if only “just to look.” But once inside, something came over me. I had to bring home a souvenir from the magical place. It simply needed to happen. I began perusing the shoe section.

Tell me you wouldn't enter.

You must know that Chanel is one of my favorite designers. The brand is full of personality with iconic, beautiful pieces that have been trendsetting and constantly evolving since its 1909 founding. Although I have always coveted Chanel pieces from afar, I’m not sure I had seen them in person at this point in my life. Certainly not up close. Not on beautiful display, practically begging me to take something home.

The Dior display. Note woman on cell phone judging me for taking this pic.

As I made my way through the shoe section, trying my darnedest to act like I belonged, I spotted from afar (remember: my gift) a beautiful pair of black Chanel pumps. Classic. Elegant. Understated. Except for the trademark double Cs in tiny crystals on the heel. Those double Cs, standing for Coco Chanel, are the symbol of prestige and luxury. The shoes adorning the famous logo were everything I wanted and nothing I needed. Nevermind the price tag of a mortgage payment, which of course, served as the undeniable proof that I lacked the prestige to back up the luxury purchase.

I knew in my “heart of hearts” that I couldn’t afford them. But I tried them on anyway, and fell in love with them. The look, the feeling I got when wearing them, the new leather smell, all of it. They needed to come home with me.

As I handed over the credit card (of course), feelings of serious doubt came over me. My twenty-nine-year-old self could almost hear my Dad’s disappointment. And then there were my own innate guilty feelings. This was pre-children, so we aren’t talking about mom guilt here, just the kind of guilt you feel when you spend on something overly lavish for only yourself when you think about how that money could be used for other purposes. But it was too late. The card was swiped, and I became the (kind of) proud new owner of a pair of Chanels. As this was happening, I secretly wondered, much like Carrie Bradshaw, if I’d lose my house and have to become the old lady who lived in those shoes.

I brought them home, slightly nervous to show my husband, Tyler. But, being the supportive guy he is, he was happy if I was happy. So life went on, with my prize possessions tucked away in a box, because where exactly was I going to don these things?

Then, the unthinkable.

Although it happened a decade ago, I can still hear the terror in Tyler’s voice when he called me at work. He had news that no one would ever want to break to a woman. Ever.

“I’m so sorry this happened,” he said, “but the new shoes. Mia. She chewed them up.”

Mia was our rescue pup. A (mostly) Great Dane that we had only agreed to take on because we thought our existing Great Dane, Woodrow, needed a companion to calm him down. One of the biggest miscalculations of our entire relationship. One that cost us not only a pair of Chanels, but thousands and thousands of dollars in damage to our home and permanent nerve damage to my body (a story for another day).

Back to this dreaded day. “Not the Chanels,” I responded. “No. Please no.”

I’m ashamed—mortified even—to admit this now, but I actually felt grief in that moment. Like I had lost someone, not something. Thinking back, I’m convinced that the grief I felt was my initial intuition about the purchase reminding me that it had never been a good idea. But I persisted, and now I was feeling the pain of both the purchase and the loss.

Turns out, I had left the shoes on the floor of our bedroom after trying them on, daydreaming of being at a Chanel-worthy event. I had never actually worn them outside of my home. Tyler got home from work, opened the bedroom door (not realizing the valuables were on the ground), let the dogs out, and the rest is only known by Mia. When I arrived later that evening, I could hardly bear to look at my once-perfect Chanels. Or her.  And I surely couldn’t take looking in the mirror at the real root of the problem.

Again being the great guy that he is, and perhaps cloaked with a touch of shoe-guilt, Tyler eventually found a specialty repair company in California that agreed to try to salvage the shoes. For another hefty price, they did a great job, but the soles (literally and figuratively) were never the same.

Over the years, I’ve broken the Chanels out here and there for special occasions, but here’s the honest truth. After two childbirths and whatever else my body has decided to evolve into, I can hardly stand wearing them. They pinch and squeeze and just plain hurt.

In our recent move, I unearthed the coveted Chanels and chuckled at my twenty-nine-year-old self. I suppose it’s a sign that I’ve come a long way in my financial responsibility. And it’s also a sign that, like my body, my values are evolving. These days, I’m opting for flats that are practical and affordable. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m a middle class woman living in the suburbs. The true joys in my life don’t come from money or material things, but from the little smiles I see when I walk through the door, the loving relationships, and the satisfaction of feeling like my hard work pays off. Sure, it’s still fun to spend, but only when I can truly afford it.

You won’t get argument from me on the point that extravagant material things give you a jolt of satisfaction or a moment of elation. But when the joy dissipates, where does that leave you?  Where’s the real value in a pair of shoes or a fancy bag that cost more than your mortgage payment? And what happens if they are ruined by a bored mutt who can’t find her bone? Whatever monetary “value” they once had is gone. Whatever joy they once brought you is gone. Just like that. It stings with a special type of venom.

Eventually, all things become chewed up and spit out, if not by our dogs, by us. Because physical items have a shelf life. They don’t evolve as you do. And, to state the obvious, they can’t smile at you as you walk through the door. That’s why I’m choosing to focus these days more on the intangibles, and less on the shiny objects.

Have you ever made an extravagant purchase you regret? What about one you don’t regret? You know the drill: let us know in the cawwwwments!

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