my obsession with sample sales, a coming of age story

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The year was 2017. I was 22, living in LA. I wore Glossier stretch concealer religiously, my bedframe was a shitty plywood abomination from Wayfair, and sorrel rice bowls were brunch de rigueur. Or so the self mythology goes.

I worked on the 27th floor of the Bank of America tower in the middle of Downtown LA off a freeway with two street levels. It was colloquially referred to as the “Bermuda Triangle” because it was so confusing for Ubers to find your pickup location. I was an entry level analyst at a consulting firm. What did I do? I looked at a lot of numbers in Excel and drank a lot of Smartwater from the office kitchen.

The hours were long and my stomach would fill with dread when the office windows turned into dark squares at night. Each day felt impossibly gelatinous.

During this year, I developed a habit of shopping to self-soothe. Specifically, going to sample sales. It made me feel like I was a different person. It made me feel like I was not a bank tower worker paying off my student loans.

This is how it would go: I’d learn about a sample sale through an brand I followed on Instagram. Sometimes through Racked (RIP) or UndercoverLA. I’d take long lunch breaks from work and take an UberPool to the Garment District, where the events were typically held. I figured an absence of 2 hours mid-day was acceptable given how long we worked. When I stepped into these sample sales, I felt like Dorothy entering Oz.

I’d be welcomed into an industrial space. There’d be a lounge area with stylish cantilever chairs, lucite coffee tables, and the kind of vintage sofas you could only find through dedicated Craigslisting. Women perched languidly on beautiful furniture with silky dresses draped over their arms. The curated nonchalance was intoxicating.

The sales were held by small independent brands, and it impressed upon my 22 year brain the belief that I was cool and special for being at such an under-the-radar event. I was desperate to become like these languid couch women through conspicuous consumption. I thought if I dressed like them maybe I could be like them.

Through sample sales I started developing a mental rolodex of the LA independent fashion/style landscape: J. Hannah, Shaina Mote, LoQ, Pari Desai, Sophie Monet, Desireeklein, Toit Volant, Building Block, The Palatines. Basically anything Sissy Chacon and Virginia Calderón would wear. I learned that it was a pretty small world. I’ve grown out of some of these brands, but their names still rattle off my tongue.

I loved the sense of urgency at these sample sales. You learn how to navigate them rather quickly by observing others, slipping into the hive movement like a school of fish deftly darting through the reef. Look at the color coded pricing sheet and memorize it. Yellow sticker means $20. Blue sticker means $50. And so forth. Thumb through the racks, snatch everything you might be interested in. The provided dressing room areas are more for theater because they’re always full, so just strip and change in the most expedient way you can. Wear the right kind of underwear so you are prepared for this. Sip the complimentary canned rosé.

I would often leave with just one thing on mega mega discount. I’d buy the yellow leather slides when I really wanted the blue ones, but the yellow ones were cheaper. I’d fall in love with a printed pattern and buy just the top because I couldn’t justify buying the matching bottoms. Nonetheless, I always treasured those pieces as a souvenir from the experience. One day, I’d be able to get the piece I really wanted.

I look back on that first year out of college with so much fondness. There was a genuine sense of wonder I had about clothes and fashion. I was easily spellbound by beautiful clothes on beautiful people in beautiful spaces. Sample sales don’t have the same hold on me anymore, but I still believe that they can be very special experiences. At the heart of it, sample sales aren’t really about the sales. It’s the performance of it all. Going to perceive and to be perceived.

I miss the earnestness of being 22. The endearing stupidity of wearing Glossier stretch concealer in the wrong shade; of rolling out of bed on the left to avoid putting pressure on the weak spot of my shitty bedframe; of being convinced that sorrel rice bowls were healing my gut. I miss that girl.