You know those days when you're just wandering through SoHo, sipping on your third oat milk latte, vibing with the fall breeze, and you think to yourself, “Today feels like a good sample sale day”? Well, guess what? I thought I found one. I did not. I found something else entirely.
How It All Started
Let me set the scene.
I was wearing my vintage Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress—you know, the navy one with those little polka dots that says, “I’m putting in effort, but not like, too much effort”—and these adorable ankle boots I just scored in Brooklyn last week. My hair? Oh, honey. It was behaving.
The idea was to “just walk around SoHo”—which, if you're a New Yorker, means you will absolutely spend $120 on something you don't need because it’s "artisanal" or "imported from a tiny village you can't find on Google Maps."
So there I am, minding my own fabulous business, when I see this sign:
"Designer Flash Sale — Exclusive Pieces Inside!"
Excuse me? Say less.
Things That Should Have Tipped Me Off
In hindsight, there were clues. But when your sample sale senses are tingling, logic goes flying out the window.
Here’s what I noticed—way too late:
- The people looked suspiciously well-dressed. Like, we’re talking runway-ready. One woman’s hair looked like it had been curled by a team of angels.
- A guy in a velvet tux shook champagne at someone and made a joke about “Not over-spritzing the guests.”
- There were no racks. No shoe boxes. No women elbowing each other over the last size 6.
But the real kicker?
A man with a clipboard looked at me, smiled (way too warmly), and said:
"You must be one of Lindsey's friends from LA. We’re so glad you could make it."
Now, I do not know any Lindseys. Especially not from LA. But do I panic? No. I do what any woman in New York who's committed to her outfit and curious about the free champagne does.
I smile politely and say:
"Yes! Lindsey and I go way back. So excited for her big day."
HER. BIG. DAY.
Realization: This Is a Wedding
Three sips into my Veuve Clicquot and I'm starting to realize:
- There’s a floral arch.
- There’s a string quartet tuning up near what looks like an altar.
- There’s a man in a yarmulke nervously checking his watch.
YEP. Not a flash sale, my friends.
I am standing in the welcome reception area of a wedding. In SoHo. Dressed like Blair Waldorf on a budget. Without a gift, without a plus-one, and nine Instagram stories deep into pretending I knew what this event was.
What Did I Do Next?
I wish I could say I gracefully bowed out. But if you think I’m the kind of girl who walks out on an open bar and a mini cupcake tower, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention.
I mingled. I complimented a woman on her Judith Leiber clutch (sparkly, spherical, possibly weaponized). I texted Monica a million times from behind a potted plant. I even helped fluff the bride’s train before she walked down the aisle—because somehow, this is my life.
Honestly? It felt like I was right back at Barry and Mindy’s wedding, but this time with better lighting and no sequin cowboy hat.
Life Lesson?
You can plan your day around finding a sample sale and end up crashing a love story instead. That’s New York. You step outside your apartment and never know if you’ll find a designer bargain or someone else’s best day ever.
And if Lindsey ever reads this—sweetheart, I’m sorry. But also? Congratulations. You had the most elegant accidental plus-one ever.
The City, Man
Even after all these years here, New York keeps delivering surprises. One minute you’re looking for discounted Manolos, the next you’re slow-dancing with an uncle named Arnold who swears he “once taught Gisele everything she knows about posing.”
It’s chaotic. It’s magical. It’s totally inappropriate. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Xoxo,
Rachel 💋
Next time: How I joined a silent meditation circle in Washington Square Park thinking it was a pop-up skincare activation. (It’s called balance.)
