Adam Lippes, Why Are You Trying To Kill Me?
Adam, I love you. Really, there’s no one quite like you for just-right fabulously slouchy sweaters and gorgeously tailored skirts. But neither I nor my bank account can handle the ongoing torture of seeing the kinds of sales you keep posting on all my favorite items. Have a heart. It’s after Christmas, and I am still reeling from the madness.
As any fashionista could hardly have failed to notice, the pre-Christmas sales this year were completely insane. The massive hordes that descended on Saks and carried away half its inventory like locusts were entirely justified by the preposterous 70% off deals they were offering on a huge range of designer merchandise. Online retailers like Shopbop and Revolve appeared to be engaging in scorched-earth financial warfare with sales sometimes providing massive reductions on their entire sites. Despite my best efforts to remain detached, I was drawn in until my bank account lay in ruins on the field of battle.
I am experiencing major sale fatigue. At this point, I have so damn many cute silk tops that even Gilt’s daily intrusions into my e-mail inbox merely make me tired. I am looking at the Adam website only for aesthetic satisfaction. At full price, I can resist. My bank account really does not need any $350 tops at this time of year. But no sooner do I see and fall in love from afar with some full-price item than it suddenly reappears on sale. You have removed the Fall 2008 collection from the website. This is probably a kindness, as those items were starting to reach Banana Republic prices that were breaking my will. I know all too soon, however, that the Resort collection, already significantly on sale, will reach near-irresistible reduction levels.
This sweater, for example?
At full price I clearly couldn’t justify it so soon after the Christmas shopping bloodbath. But 30% off? And this skirt, now over 40% off?
Ladies, beware. He is a dangerous man. And if you are on a strict budget, don’t click on the links. It’s like trying on the Chanel. No good can come of it.