Last week I was having a classically frantic New York day. I was already running late for a morning event, and I had several stops to make afterward, including selling clothes at the downtown vintage store James Veloria. I needed something to haul my stuff, quickly.
In a rush I grabbed a hulking promotional shopping bag. The shopping bag, a safe bet I loved this white matte shopping bag for its sheer largeness. It’s a pain in the ass, so big it can hold a toddler—or two.
The size is not made for the cramped confines of the subway, but rather it begs for its own spacious reservation, the backseat of an Uber. Its heft demands glamorous handling. And that is exactly how I treated the zaftig carryall from the beginning of the day: I called an overpriced car, plopped that beacon of an XXL bag down next to me, and rode across the bridge.
A shopping bag is almost like a trophy. It reads “I came, I saw, I shopped,” but more than that play on Caesar’s motto, it really says, “I was out in the world, experiencing it.” I had long forgotten about this connection until I went to James Veloria and dropped off some suits I never wore to trade for a saucy little Versace suit dress.
I skipped through Chinatown with the store’s co-owner Brandon Giordano , where we laughed over an impromptu dim sum lunch and then strolled into a shop filled with Chinese tchotchkes. I felt alive as I Venmoed the store owner for a pair of $25 sequin-embroidered black mules. I tossed them into my sl.