Why I Go for Imported Clothes

To shop, or not to shop, there is no question.  Whether ‘tis nobler for the spirit to fiddle with one’s pocketbook while the cooked rice burns…  Let’s face it, there’s something elemental about shopping that’s good for angst attacks.  On the female side of the gender divide, anyway, as any female would care to admit when it comes to the clothes she wears.

There’s no sense in punching holes in one’s pocket, though, for an ephemeral angst may disappear with a simple walk in the park or a mumbled prayer, or even the wag of a dog’s tail or the purring of a cat relaxing on one’s lap.  But clothes are clothes and any breathing female worth her skirt hopes to be a clotheshorse, given the chance.

To shop thus, and shop wisely and well, is worth its feat in Olympic gold.  When I learned the tricks of noble shopping and fancied myself morphing into a noble shopping savage, my love affair with imported RTWs was sealed.  Call it snobbery, misplaced, undeserved, or reverse.

It began almost two decades ago.  An officemate intimated a place where one can get hold of bargain clothes.  We need to beat the heat and dust and wear simple house clothes and slippers because the price is adjusted to how one looks, she had said.

I can break some sweat there.  I knew her as a shopping pro with money to spare and an elegant taste to boot, judging from her grooming.  I had only to follow where she led and trust that no harm will come my way.  We found ourselves on the sidewalks of Carbon Market in Cebu City. Just wash them real well, my friend advised in helpful indirection.

The clothes were fabulous in looks and price.  All they needed was a little imagination, like seeing the sunshine behind a cloud.  The dust and heat were part of the bargaining chips, no different from the convoluted outer side of an oyster shell with an undiscovered pearl.  But that the clothes fitted perfectly was the greater miracle.

More often, my experience with RTWs from department stores veers on the unpleasant.  Small size wouldn’t fit the hips, medium size slides down to the hips, and large size makes me feel like a football player ready to touchdown.  Something’s always wrong that a dressmaker is needed for little tucks and adjustments, a grudging task when it takes weeks and a series of visits.  So my standard for choosing clothes became basic; they should fit well and make me comfortable.  The design can be dated, retro or futuristic for all I care.

Then I beheld a floor-length skirt, an exact same one that took my breath away days before when I saw the display window of a department store.  The price of the one I was holding was only one-twentieth, plus a bonus which that expensive skirt in the department store didn’t have— a silk lining.  It was unused, still in its plastic wrap and original price tag, in Niponggo.  These were unsold items in Japan where they change their stocks every six months, I was to learn.  Well, my favorite clothes last for years, so what’s six months?  I don’t even have to go to Tokyo to shop!

Between a dress in a boutique or department store window and one that’s indisputably imported, being ‘Made in the U.K.’ (the lighthearted euphemism for ukay-ukay), my bias is unimpeachable.  There’s beauty in these wilted lilies, so to speak.

Your Ralph Lauren dress is great, another friend commented.  What’s Ralph Lauren?  I asked.  I didn’t know what that name stood for, then.  Your dress is an original Ralph Lauren, my friend pointed out.  So.  I may be daft about name brands, but my range is increasing and this is a good way to learn as any.  By ‘this’ I mean accidentally knowing about a brand because I happen to unknowingly wear one.  In any case, name brands do not a good dresser make.

For those in the know, this kind of shopping is not for the fainthearted.  Patience, perseverance and a sense of fun are needed as much as plinking a little money.  Here in this city, my favorite ‘Made in the U.K.’ outlet is Cynthia’s, the ground floor of Jhun’s Advertising.  The service is not only personalized, the outlet also offers privacy and constancy in prices, unlike some very public outlets where the price of an item is raised once it’s chosen.

A few years back, I let go of boxes of clothes that I deemed too warm for the tropics when I prepared to leave a cold country for good.  That place provided for gigantic receptacles in strategic areas where one can dispose of used but still useful clothing.  So were there private organizations that provided baskets on the entrances of houses for residents to place their discarded clothing in.

The world is getting smaller.  Who knows if it’s written in the stars that one day I would get hold of a clothing item and unmistakably recognize some telltale signs that it came from me years before.  I shall then be glad to have it back, as by then I shall have gained an insight as well into the barest essentials of an economic invention called globalization.  Meanwhile, I can go on hunting for other imported clothes when angst demands or when instinct calls…

(July 2005)