I walked into a boutique earlier this week and was immediately surprised by what I saw: It was arranged in the exact same was as my closet.
I’m a big fan of color coding my closet. I have things go in rainbow order, then I divide out “work clothes” from “weekend clothes.” I have a section for my sweaters and blazers and a section for my hoodies and sweatshirts.
But I don’t always see stores or shelves or closets that are organized the same way I do. It instantly felt familiar. Friendly. Trusted. I bonded with the shop designer over his stylistic choices and we found our personalities clicked.
We began finishing each other’s sentences, pepping up other customers while they were trying on clothes, and enjoying a surreally heightened sense of banter while I tried on dresses, skirts and jumpsuits.
He showed me some misfits: things I never would have worn or dresses I told him I would have loved three years earlier. I bought quite a few things.
In the end, I probably spent more money there than I should have, something I didn’t quite realize until I was checking out to pay. And then it all struck me: I leaned in far too hard on the friendly, familiar face and let myself get totally sold.
Yes, the store was lovely. Yes, the shop keeper was charming. But was it the best deal I’ve ever gotten? No. Did I need everything I bought? Almost certainly not.
As soon as I walked into that store, I felt an immediate click of relatability that ultimately skewed my perception toward everything else. It was all tainted with rose colored glasses. That’s why I got caught up in it.
I thought at the time that I had come across something rare, unique and prized.
But in this case, all it happened to show was one thing: Me and that shop keeper each color code our closets the same way. Nothing more.
