This bag is legitimately the only thing making me want to get dressed.
Bag c/o 
Shorts (similar) Lipstick Sandals
When I was in my early twenties, I did a lot of shopping on Canal Street, in New York City. Well, not on Canal Street itself; that’s mostly fruit stands and storefronts selling plastic frogs and three-for-the-price-of-one Big Apple t-shirts, all of which I’m all stocked up on, thanks. Where I did my shopping was in the fluorescent-lit, cement walled rooms above and behind these storefronts; you got to them by following someone muttering “real bags gucci chanel gucci chanel” down an alleyway, and then through a locked door and down winding hallways until you got to the place where the bags were stacked ten-deep on white plastic tables.
(It’s as excellent of an idea to follow a stranger into a creepy locked hallway as it sounds like. Please don’t do this, guys.)
I’m sure there’s a black market for actual designer bags – but where, exactly, this might be is not information I’m privy to (nor would I especially want to be, because I enjoy not contributing to felonies). The bags I was sifting through in those Canal Street back-rooms weren’t real at all, but to me, they were good enough: only a cheap topstitch here or an off-center interior tag there let you know that what you were holding wasn’t exactly crafted by Italian artisans. (Well, that and the leather quality, but “quality” obviously wasn’t something I was overly concerned with at the time.)
I’ve always had a thing for purses, and back then I owned a ton, all hanging off of a coatrack in our “office” (a.k.a. the hallway between our bedroom and our living room). I had Balenciaga, Celine, Gucci; all of them purchased for something like twenty bucks; none of them even the tiniest bit authentic. One day in early 2010, I arrived home to find that my apartment had been broken into and my bags (among other things) had been stolen – presumably by someone who was pretty disappointed to realize, upon arriving home, that they had made off with nothing more than a stack of Chinatown’s Best.
I was walking down Canal Street a couple of weeks ago, and heard the familiar “real bags real bags gucci gucci” (apparently Gucci is what sells best on Canal Street..?) and remembered how those words used to be completely irresistible to me – I couldn’t help following them, feeling guilty for wanting to spend money that I didn’t have on something like a handbag, but spending it anyway. It’s sort of a silly analogy (but completely accurate) to say that at the time I was like one of those purses myself: decently pulled-together on the outside, but a total mess upon closer inspection.
I never replaced those fake bags; I haven’t been into one of those Canal Street warehouses since the day they were stolen. I do care about quality now; about soft leather and neat stitching. I’m still a mess in lots of ways, but I no longer feel like pretending – and I no longer especially want my accessories to, either.
P.S. These days I’m more likely to pick up a pre-owned bag than a fake one (for a variety of reasons, including the fact that I care about quality these days and the fact that I’d rather not participate in trademark violation); if you feel similarly and are as into a navy bag for fall as I am, pleeeease check out this Jil Sander and this Mansur Gavriel. Both pre-owned; both perfect (and both 20% off of the already-low price with code AUGUST). Someone seriously needs to own those, and quick (because there’s only one of each available.)
More gorgeous navy bags for your consideration…
