Meet über-geek; high school speech and debate club treasurer, reading Shakespeare for pleasure and working in the accounts receivable department of a data storage company as an after school job. I was socially awkward, so I spent my free time babysitting. Socially awkward, but rich for a 17 year old and I spent every last centime on designer clothing! It made absolutely no sense, I didn’t have a social life, so I never had any where to wear the clothing, but I was addicted. Tragically, I could be spotted dressed in a purple Norma Kamali, heavily shoulder padded cotton coat over a red and fuschia Nicole Miller silk dress, clodding along in a pair of heels through a public high school in the American suburbs. Wonder why I was the social equivalent of the bubonic plague?

In 1995 my fashion collection met a sudden and unexpected death; well-intentioned cleaning lady meets black suede, red cashmere, a lot of silk and introduces them to a washing machine. Clataclysmic. But life was happening; I had preschool tuition to pay,  a mortgage to worry about and there was just no longer any room in my life for designer duds. Besides, I had grown up enough to accept the fact that I was never going to have a lifestyle that befit that kind of clothing. Especially not in San Francisco where my friends were “dressed up” if they deigned to put on long pants. I still loved great design and would haunt Jeremy’s for impressive bargains on fantastic finds, but I had run out of steam.

When I moved to Paris, I would look intently out the bus window as it headed down the avenue Montaigne, much like a child gazing longingly into a candy shop. Those boutiques were beyond my means, and for a moment, they were beyond my imagination.

Several years ago, we had a very special party to attend back in the US. I had lost 20lbs since moving to Paris, nothing I owned fit me and I wanted to look particularly fantastic (no, this was not my high school reunion); clearly I needed a new dress. It was time to spoil myself and I was determined to find something very, very special. After nearly a decade of good behaviour, I wanted to go on a serious shopping trip. The thought terrified me.

In the US they have those big, friendly, anonymous department stores that were easy to enter and browse. Going into the designer section was as easy as stepping on to the plush carpet. No streets to cross and no doors to open. In Paris the shops are boutiques; tiny and intimate. I did not believe for one moment that I would be welcome in a designer store. And while there are also department stores, I wanted a little piece of the 1950’s haute couture dream. To spy the Dior staircase and imagine Mademoiselle just upstairs on the rue Cambron.

I called a friend for a bit of support. She was surprised to learn of my timidity. A women who willingly, happily backpacked alone for three months through Africa was intimidated by a luxury boutique? This she had to see. We were out the door before I could say LVMH. First stop, Versace, where the salesman greeted us with a smile and offered us a glass of champagne. Seriously, me in my 20$ Costco Calvin Kleins, sipping champagne on the rue St Honoré! We continued on to Chanel, Chloé, and Celine, before hitting the rest of the alphabet. In every shop the staff was not just helpful, but warm and welcoming. It was a pleasure. In the end I returned home empty handed and visited a tailor for the serious over-haul of a lovely, ivory colored Armani dress with graduated red beading and turquoise stone trim I had found at Jeremy’s for 95$. I settled on silk stockings with a seam up the back to give the look a Parisian twist, wore red CFMs with 4″ high heels and I was ready for the ball.

I was also cured. I no longer stand drooling puddles of longing outside of the boutiques, but enter boldly, admiring the craftsmanship, inspecting the designs and fondling the fabrics. It is a wonderful sensation, a sensation I dare you to share if you have been at all longing, but too intimidated to open the door.