Last week, Melissa and I happened to be talking about something vintage-related that reminded me of a vintage show I went to five years ago. The last few months, I had been jonesing a vintage show given that I wasn’t able to make it to the Manhattan Vintage Clothing show in April. Just then, I googled “vintage Sturbridge,” and there it was.
I had been to the show in 2005 with my sister, Julie; it was quite a large show. At it, I bought a purse and a tapestry makeup bag. Here’s the purse, a lovely box purse.
Anyway, once I googled last Thursday, I saw that the show was today! I asked Melissa if she could make it, but unlike me, she didn’t lead the life-of-Riley-if-Riley-were-an-unemployed-person. On a whim, I emailed Nancy, my previous partner in vintage crimes; I knew she had a contract job, but I had hoped that her job might make her Riley when it didn’t make her Nancy on Monday.
She told me she thought she could do it. She had a deadline to meet; however, if her deadline was met on Saturday, she could again be Betty to my Veronica (or vise versa) in vintage crimes. We’d have to significantly ponder who was who given we were both blondes. Note: All partners in good crime debate their aliases; Bitsy and I fought through most of college trying to decide which one of us was Laverne and which one of us was Shirley.
On Saturday, Nancy emailed me to say that if she went, she need to get back by 3:30pm. I told her that wouldn’t be a problem. She replied, “On to Sturbridge!”
I picked her up at 10am this morning. She thanked me for inviting her. I thanked her for coming, and before I could say anymore, she said, “It got me out of the house, too!”
I could relate to getting out of the house. I knew if she hadn’t come along, I was determined to make the trip solo. The price of admission was $10, and I knew I couldn’t buy a lot given my current employment status; however, getting out of the house for me was like a MasterCard commercial, priceless.
We got in line to pay our admission. As we moved ahead in the queue, the show organizers shouted that there were two ballrooms filled with vintage, and more vintage sandwiched in between those two rooms, making it like a Double Stuff Vintage Oreo! After I paid my $10, the woman who stamped my hand said, “I love that sweater.”
As we headed toward the first ballroom, I said to Nancy, “Did you hear that? She liked my sweater?” I had worn one of my vintage sweaters. I just figured, “When in Vintageland, do as the fashionistas do.”
When I walked into the ballroom, I tried to take all the clothing in; but I was immediately blinded by the rack of beautiful 1920s flapper dresses hanging in one stall. Oooh, sparkles! It was as if a rhinestone bolt hit me, and I was powerless to move in any direction.
Once I could see again, I went directly to a rack of dresses. Dress-by-dress, I flipped them off to the right, hoping to find one that said “Jean” to me. In my vintage haze, I had lost track of Nancy. She was nowhere to be found; I figured that, like me, she had been drawn elsewhere.
In under 15 minutes, I found a dress I loved. I held it up to me; I looked for a tag. The owner of the stall said, “Oh. I love that dress. You can try it on if you want.”
I began to take my sweater off. As I did, she said, “That’s why most women come here wearing cat suits.” I said, “Um, I do not own a cat suit,” to which she responded in a low whisper, “Neither do I!”
We laughed together, as if we had instantly formed the "Just Say No to the Cat Suit" club. Once my sweater was off, she saw that I had a light-weight t-shirt on. She said, “Oh, you should be just fine with that!”
I unzipped the side zipper on the dress. I then pulled it over my head and began to wriggle it down my chest before it stalled. I then felt her hands on my body as she tugged. She said, “Oh, you need a dresser!”
Once I had it on, I felt a tad silly; my jeans were still on underneath the dress. I felt like I was back in Haynes Elementary school on a snow day; I was wearing pants under my dress, and there were Wonder Bread bags waiting for me in my snow boots. While those bags left crumbs all over my socks, the bread bags made it so much easier for me to slip my feet in and out of my boots!
She said, “Wow. I’ve never seen that dress on anyone. It looks great on you.” I would have doubted her comments had it been a $245 dress, but it was only $45. She said, “There’s a full length mirror over there. Go look. I’ll watch your stuff.”
Sheepishly, I walked over to the mirror. I made my way around the sea of people that had gathered in the aisle. The people, the goods, and the sound of “Can you do $400 for both?” as a woman looked at two huge shawls offered by a very large gentleman with long hair, a beard, who wore some very funky embroidered pajamas, made me feel like I was in a Middle Eastern market and not at a North Eastern vintage show!
I wedged my way in between a woman holding a vintage bustier and a man asking if there were any stilettos in larger sizes. Later, when I came across a beautiful black lace bustier, I said to Nancy, “Maybe I should wear this on my next job interview?” She laughed, and so did I, but after all this time, I was beginning to think that’s just what it might take to set me apart from all the others!
From the glimpse I could get of myself in the mirror, I loved the dress, even though I thought, “Minus the jeans, of course!” When I walked back, I told the woman, “I’ll take it.” She smiled a very genuine smile; it was as if the dress were a beloved kitten from her litter and she had just found the exact owner she had been hoping for.
As with any hobby, there are definitely personality types associated with it. You have the young, the old, and the bitchy; and that applies both to the females and to the males. Booth to booth, you always found a different personality, a personality that was just as interesting as the clothing that hung inside it.
At one point, I saw a woman who was about the age my mother would have been now if she were still alive. She was wearing a bright top, cat pants (though it might have been a cat suit), and she had a shock of purple in her black hair. I saw her coming and said to Nancy, “Look at this!” After she passed, I thought, “Jeez, maybe that is my real mother!”
As the day wore on, every now and then, Nancy and I would find each other again. We’d briefly chat about a find, a booth, or a character (like the singing lady who Nancy kept bumping into), and then we’d depart again. We had both paid our museum admission, and now we were running freely through it, never leaving each other but always coming back to share a new-found treasure.
I love purses. No. I won’t tell you how many I have, but each one is unique and different. At one point, I picked up a compact purse; it was very heavy. I said to Nancy, “I like a purse that cannot only carry a lipstick but can be a weapon if your date gets out of line!”
We entered the second ballroom together in the afternoon. Nancy said something like, “Wow, this is just like the first one.” When I walked in, the first thing I saw was a very unattractive 70s maxi-dress. I said, “You know, Nancy, some of these fashions should never see the light of day again,” to which Nancy said, “I know!”
It wasn’t until about five years ago that I knew you could bargain with most antique dealers. If the price tag said, “$9.99,” I paid $9.99. This was until I learned the art of bargaining at the Lancaster Flea Market.
Nancy told me that she loved overhearing the bargaining between the sellers and the buyers. I could relate. Given that we were newbies, it was almost like being given a glimpse of what was behind Door #2 before having to open Door #2.
Since I’m a “big girl,” most vintage shoes don’t fit me. This is a shame, because I love the shoes of the 40s, 50s, and 60s. (Suze was right; I was born in the wrong place and at the wrong time.) Women had such teeny-tiny feet then, microscopic I might say!
When Nancy and I went into one booth, a pair of clear go-go boots caught my eye. I picked them up, and I saw size 8-8.5 on the bottom. Damn!
I said to Nancy after pondering the shoes, “God, I’ve always wanted those!” She asked, “Small feet?” I said, “No! Go-go boots!” Then I had a think and said, “Yeah, I really would like those, too!”
I bought a pair of sunglasses at a “bargain” booth. These were labeled “Italian sunglasses.” Don’t laugh too hard; by the way, Nancy said they looked good!
After a few hours, I felt somewhat like I had been to the Antiques Roadshow. I hadn’t been featured with a 1778 mahogany desk made by George Titwell, master Philadelphia furniture maker. But, I did feel like I was featured in the end segment; “Dresses similar to the pink crocheted dress that I bought on eBay for $80 are being sold here for $200-$500.” Go me!
Near the end of the day, my lower-back began to ache from standing all day. It was like I told Nancy initially; going to a vintage show was like going to a museum, albeit a clothing museum. You’d spend most of the day in a time warp and captivated.
At one point, I was in a booth and saw a woman looking around in total amazement; she muttered out loud, “Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous!” I knew what she meant; I’d been saying the same thing to myself all day. Well, it was that and “Why didn’t I marry for money and not love those two times I got married?!”
When I got home, I relayed the days’ events to a friend. Before he could respond, Nancy sent me an email and said, “I had a blast today. I'm exhausted though -- feel like I spent 4 hours at the Smithsonian! “ Just then, my friend sent me an email and said, “Sounds like good fun plus good company, and that's hard to beat.” He was right, because regardless of the fabulous clothes, a day spent with a good friend was always “Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.” ♥
No comments:
Post a Comment