{"id":97538,"date":"2016-04-29T19:25:41","date_gmt":"2016-04-29T23:25:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=97538"},"modified":"2016-04-29T19:37:53","modified_gmt":"2016-04-29T23:37:53","slug":"fabric-of-our-lives","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/04\/29\/fabric-of-our-lives\/","title":{"rendered":"Fabric of Our Lives"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

It\u2019s not as if I could afford it. I could never have afforded a nightgown that expensive, and in that moment of my life\u2014marginally employed, tenuously housed, financially and otherwise insecure\u2014I could afford it even less than usual. The week before, a piece of my tooth had fallen out, a jagged shard, its edges brown with decay. I kept it in a dish by my bed. It had become an object of some fascination, but I really needed to go to the dentist.\u00a0<\/p>\n

But I wanted that nightgown\u00a0so much<\/em>. I craved it as I hadn\u2019t craved a thing since childhood. It was, in fact, the sort of thing I hadn\u2019t wanted since childhood\u2014feminine and pretty and frivolous. A whisper-thin slip of cotton so fine, so precious, that it transcended price and moved into the realm of the divine.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I had saved up all my cash in a paper bag, and one day I took the subway from my sublet to the linen store. I told myself it was a birthday gift. Or a gift for now being single. I was treating myself. Wasn\u2019t that a form of self-respect? My tongue found the jagged hole in my mouth and worried at it.<\/p>\n

Inside, the shop was heavily scented with freesia. On the walls were pictures of first ladies, socialites, royals. All around me, beds were piled with toning Alps of pillows so high you\u2019d have needed to toss three immaculate boudoirs to the immaculate floor before you could turn back a corner of goose-down comforter. On every flat surface, piles of sheets were stacked, crisp as potato chips.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I had dressed with care, in what I imagined their customers wore\u2014straight jeans and a trench coat\u2014but I clearly didn\u2019t belong. My awe and bravado were palpable. I asked where the nightgowns were; a woman led me to a rack of gossamer-fine cotton toile.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I reached into one I wanted and gazed at my hand through two layers of gauzy magic, and I smelled freesia. I pulled one off the rack; the padded, printed hanger alone cost forty-three dollars. \u201cI\u2019ll take it,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, we\u2019ll get you a fresh one,\u201d said the woman. And then, discreetly eyeing my body, the belt of my trench pulled tight, fabric taut over my chest, \u201cwould you like to try it on?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, this is my size,\u201d I said. \u201cIt always has been.\u201d\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you can return it if it\u2019s too tight,\u201d she said.\u00a0<\/p>\n

As she busied herself in a storeroom, the door opened and a heavily pregnant woman rushed in, highlighted hair flying behind her, Lanvin flats soundless on the carpet. \u201cThe meter\u2019s running,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I needed to get bedding for the hospital. I\u2019m due next week.\u201d<\/p>\n

In a remarkably short time, she and a saleswoman had piled flowered quilts, heart-printed sheets, pillows on the counter. The total was astronomical\u2014she had spent ten thousand dollars in two minutes. \u201cLet\u2019s do the boudoir pillows, too,\u201d said the customer. \u201cAnd has Lisa been in touch about crib linens? We\u2019re still finalizing the colors.\u201d Then, with a swipe of platinum, she was gone.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of <\/em>The Paris Review, and the <\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s not as if I could afford it. I could never have afforded a nightgown that expensive, and in that moment of my life\u2014marginally employed, tenuously housed, financially and otherwise insecure\u2014I could afford it even less than usual. 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