When you say the word "consignment," Park Avenue isn't exactly what pops into your mind. However, there they are, scattered little sanctuaries buried deep in the concrete jungle of the East 70's where bushels of divorcees and divas give up their precious couture, and often times walk away with new pieces. For the last year I've worked at a contemporary consignment shop on 74th St. where women can come in with their used shoes, clothes and jewelry, sell them for less‐exorbitant prices than they bought it all for, and make a profit. We aren't talking "thrift" or "army‐navy" here... we're talking a Giorgio Armani dinner jacket worn once; three pairs of Giuseppe Zanotti sandals bought at a Saks sale a year ago but stuffed in the back of the closet; three Diane Von Furstenberg dresses with tags still on them bought for a spoiled daughter who hates them. It's a drop‐off center for the wealthy. Make no mistake: it's the women who are running this Sutton Place scene. Sure, the husbands who are doctors, lawyers and bankers (it's one of the three or none; you live in the East 60s or 70s or you don't) who finance the lifestyle. It's the women, however, who decide what's in or what's out, who's invited or who isn't. There are a good majority of women who do in fact work in PR or fashion, or they might be dentists, doctors or lawyers themselves. There are a larger fraction of women who work on other things: yoga, dance class, shuttling their kids to and from private schools, their hair, their nails, and then puddle‐jumping between what I like to call the "3 B's"... Bergdorf's, Barney's and Bloomingdales. Shopping up here isn't extracurricular, or a fun thing to do on Saturdays - you are dealing with a Master's Degree level. There aren't any Tupperware parties, there are Hermes Birkin Bag Swap Parties. On the way to pick up their dry cleaning, they'll pop in with the nanny and drop $500 on a navy Marni raincoat they have in black, but love it so much they'll take it in navy, too. They know exactly how much it is to repair thumbnail‐size hole in a cashmere sweater. They know that Searle just put their summer dresses on sale early two days ago, so we should put the one we have in the window at half price. Of course, the day can be peppered with a few too‐tanned, too‐many‐times‐blonde, uber‐injected visitors, with what I like to call "deep‐fried highlights" and the Something-About-Mary‐tan one can only get from, well, hours of golf and margaritas in Palm Beach. Overly‐plumped lips, stretched‐out botoxed foreheads, and saggy skin left to hang after routine liposuctions ("Sweetie, can you help me get out of this dress?") can easily make your wince‐reflex work overtime. And of course there are the emotionally‐botoxed women -- on their way to therapy, or just out of a "spa center," or going through their second divorce, or ten years divorced and never on a date since. It tends to become a group therapy session served chilled over Prada and Vuitton. Once the flood gates of intimate conversation have opened, the dialogue knows no boundaries. Hardly ever does a man walk into a female consignment shop, so it's pretty safe to say that everything from heiresses faking pregnancies to high‐profile infidelities can be overheard in the store. The conversational intimacy makes for great sales and the trust translates to more Chanel bags handed over to us. The women may not want to be seen with the store's shopping bag, but they sure do pass in on almost a daily basis. And I'll tell you why. To these women, the clothing they bring in is almost equivocal to dropping their children off at an adoption auction.
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