I love to spend money, because I am American.

Not even going to lie or feel ashamed: I am a straight-up consumerist. It makes me happy to spend money on random stuff that I probably don’t need. It makes me feel secure. Rich, even. Even if some of the people working at Neiman Marcus don’t agree. Today we went to the Galleria (frou frou Houston mall) and I bought a bunch of cheap jewelry and a cheap purse. Yesterday we went to Harwin (Houston wholesale district) and I bought… well, a bunch of cheap jewelry and a purse. Yes. Actually, Harwin was extra awesome because I ventured past the usual stores (Trendy Jewelry, called simply Trendy by those in the know, and the purse store with the drawings of purses all over it, and the Korean grocery store), and found a tiny store in the corner of a shopping center that had real Indian stuff. And I got an Indian beaded purse, plus several fabulous cheap Indian bracelets. Even a gold bangle with red beads, even though I never wear gold and hardly wear red. I love Indian stuff. But then, after that, we went to an Indian restaurant and I took my bracelet off, because I didn’t want people to think that I was some kind of Caucasian person with an Indian culture fetish. (Because everyone knows that I have an Asian culture fetish, instead. Hello.)

I’ll still pass judgement on other consumerists, though.

My boyfriend’s sister got him a Coach belt for his birthday, but it was too big. So he drove us to the nearest outlet mall so we could switch the belt for something else.

When the newest local outlet mall first opened, there was a line outside the Coach store. Why? I don’t know. I mean, I’m guessing it’s because Coach is the newest expensive thing that poor people can almost kind of afford, right?

We went to the Coach store to return the belt, and there wasn’t a line to get in, but the store was super crowded and had a snaky, cordonned line for the registers. I stood in line while my boyfriend searched for something to switch the belt for. All around me, poor girls stood in line to spend their week’s paycheck on a monogrammed Coach bag.

Remember back in the ’80s, when Coach didn’t make monogrammed bags? When they only made bags in solid neutral leather, and their catalogs proclaimed how well made they were? And gold diggers asked for Gucci and ridiculed old women who carried Coach?

Remember when poor people were obsessed with Dooney and Burke, and everything with a D&B on it was valuable as gold, no matter how freaking ugly it was?

Remember when poor people were obsessed with Polo? With Tommy Hilfiger? With a bunch of brands that don’t even exist anymore, but which were always emblazoned with logos or names?

I wished I could interview the poor people shopping at Coach and ask them what they were trying to buy. Do they literally believe that owning a Coach bag makes them look un-poor? Or maybe even negates their poorness?

I’m the same kind of snob my dad is. When we were children and we asked for clothing with branding or logos on it — like, say, a Pepsi cap or a California Raisins t-shirt, my dad would say, “I’m not going to buy you a shirt that advertises someone else’s product. Why should you pay to advertise for someone else? They should pay you, if they want you to wear that.”

I absorbed that lesson and others, and now I’d rather go nude than wear something with a big, giant logo, or monograms splattered all over.

Also, I’d rather be poor again than be desperate to pretend I’m someone else.

I wish everyone was stronger and less concerned with bullshit. I mean, buy yourself crap — I always do — but buy it because you like it and not because you think someone else will respect you more if you shell out a certain amount of money. You know?

I don’t know who I’m talking to, here. Those little kids at the Coach store don’t read my blog, I’m pretty sure.

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