SOS : Sale On my Soul

When the first snows of January fall, every woman in France takes a red pen to write down this red-letter day in her agenda. : SALES. A red-letter day, because of the colour of the lipstick you’ll buy ? I would rather go with the bloodshare theory.

Sales are a true war, with true soldiers and above all, the most fashionable trophies. Sales are the perfect occasion to buy a lot of useless clothes, which yet have the irresistible avantage to be cheap.

   After a family council, I prepared my day of shopping: comfortable shoes for kilometres of concrete, the very minimum in my purse for optimal aerodynamics in the polluted air, and clothes easy to take off to save time in the changing rooms. In the mirror, I arranged my facial expression into a frown, gritting my teeth, ready to bite.

 I sliced through the air to get to my bus stop. I noticed I had forgotten my watch -that is to say I didn’t have any way to measure my spell in every boutique. The big sale trap is to enter in a shop you like and to spend years to turn over the whole place searching for THE DEAL -with flashing letters-, and to forget that minutes, hours are passing buy, embodied by the constant ‘beep’s’ of the cash registers for clothes that are henceforth going out of the window.

Nevermind, I had to be efficient. In the tram, I met a girlfriend. Damn. Not that it’s my normal reaction when I pass one of my friends, no. It’s just that I would be sorry to have to scalp her in the eventuality that she would find before me THE DEAL -with flashing letters-. I tried to make her understand politely that you can’t fraternize with the enemy during war time. She understood.

I stepped on the large paved street of my town, lined with shops. Suddenly, anxiety. Where should I begin ? Behind me, before me ? So important to be a strategist, but it’s better not to forget that the aim in war is to win. And to reach victory, you must fight. I rolled up my down jacket’s sleeves (easier to say that to do… But keep the warrior spirit of this image), and entered the nearest boutique.

Cohorts of skirts, regiments of jackets, packs of bags. The labels flied, the hangers squeaked, the beeps attacked me. I stepped and slipped on a blouse lying around. The battlefield didn’t wait for me.

After having torned apart full departments, I stopped and stared at my list. I had in my hands : a skirt, a sleeveless t-shirt and a bag, while I needed : pyjamas, jeans, belt. I tried to convince myself : « Yeah, but these are deals, ha !» And failed to convince myself. I felt remorse. I looked at the skirt’s label : «Made in Malaysia». Suddenly I felt real compassion for the cause of child laborers in this country. I threw the blouse behind me. Re-felt remorse for the saleswomen running all over the place to pick up the corpses. I crossed the whole shop, saying ‘ Sorry! ‘ a thousand times. I went around the shop to find the skirt department. I put away the skirt I found and relaxed for two seconds. I looked at the sleeveless t-shirt. Suddenly, I found it terrible. What about the bag ? I thought of the money I was about to spend on it while I still needed : pyjamas, jeans, belt. I saw my parents working hard to earn this money. Felt guilty. Put the bag down.

I went out of the shop – it was noon. I had a bus in fifteen minutes, still needed to take the tram before and had to terminate my mobile subscription. I bought nothing.

 SOS. Sale On my Soul.

- Thanks Ben for the corrections !

Once upon a time, the city…

I was thrown on this earth, with five tools : eyes to see, ears to hear, a nose -God, I have to tell you this one’s way too prominent – to smell, fingers to touch, and a mouth to taste. And a brain to think about everything I saw, heard, smelled, touched and tasted. These five senses are not too much if you want to take in the city.

When I became old enough to stride along the streets of my city, I wandered and wondered about its inner mystery. The city, a place when you can have it all, or live under the stars. A place with a high concentration of people, but where most of them feel alone. A place where beauty and ugliness walk in high heels on the dirty pavement like close friends.

And in facing such strange world, I asked myself : « Does the city shape us ?».

I asked a friend, a law student in her twenties, this question. She answered : ”I’m not the same person when I’m in the city and in the country. The city’s like a big TV. You can change the channels as soon as you get bored. In the country, or the fringe, life is more «Take it or leave it »”.

The point in which I agree upon is that the city is full of ways to fill your emptiness. But the city doesn’t turn everyone into empty nuts. Sometimes the most artificial activities brought me to very deep thoughts. I can remember so many parties I left feeling older than ever, thinking how my life is insignificant. It felt like the concrete of the streets made me a stoic.

The city is also a playground for relationships. It’s a place where it’s easy to be noticed, if you know how to manage it. There is always something to do, someone new to meet, someone old to forget.

City dwellers have even developed an entire lifestyle around those concrete blocks. A life of no attachment, of speed, of stress and entertainment. That’s why cities are often much more liberal than the country. This has probably to do with the sweet taste of sin. The smoke of a cigarette, the noise of a party, the smell of a gentleman. The city is a way of life, no doubt about it.

But sometimes it feels like the city is an illusion. The illusion that you can have it all, have a thousand friends, purchase everything. In reality I just felt broken, both sentimentally and financially. The city gives you thousands of choices, but life only gives you several chances.

Never believe the city.

* Thank you Ben for your corrections !