I have a really weird relationship with Abercrombie & Fitch.
Sure, I hate their gang-rape chic advertising campaigns. I hate that their clothes cost about three times what they're worth. I hate the "Oh, poor thing. What are you? A size 10?" look that the perfectly bronzed and toned employees* give me when I walk in.
But even so, I harbor a shameful A&F obsession. I find myself perennially attracted to their pre-distressed denim, the frayed logos on their sweatshirts, even the ostentatious initials blaring from the asses of their chocha-baring gym shorts.
I think my problem is that the A&F cool factor was singed into my brain at a vulnerable stage of development. While this was probably the effect of savvy marketing techniques targeted at adolescents, I prefer to blame my friend Milena.
You see, I first became aware of Abercrombie's existence on a trip to the mall with my junior high class. This particular excursion was a privilege reserved solely for "Warrior Club" members, which was a club based on "outstanding citizenship" that you were automatically a member of if you didn't, like, stab your math teacher with a shiv. I spent the whole time lurking around Orange Julius deciding how to spend the $2 my mom had so generously allotted me, but when we all got back on the bus, Milena was hauling an Abercrombie bag. The borderline porn on the front grabbed my hormones' attention.
"What'd you get?" I half-expected her to pull out one of the so-called "dildos" I'd heard about on Loveline.
Instead, she drew from the bag the single most beautiful object I'd ever seen--a dark hunter green crewneck sweater with ABERCROMBIE lettered in bold white across the front. My jealousy leaked out in the form of a gasp/grunt. It was incredible. It had a big tag sewn into it. I got a strong urge to reach out and touch it. Maybe some of its coolness would rub off on me?
I went home and plastered the walls of my room with half-naked Abercrombie models torn from magazines. I ordered their catalog (which actually cost money--aren't catalogs supposed to be a god-given freedom, like air?) and lusted after each new collection...er, well, I guess I lusted after what I imagined each new collection looked like, because there were no clothes featured in the catalog, only abs.
And, like a young girl whose distant relationship with her father leads her to a lifetime of pursuing cold men, I find myself still, at 21, yearning for a $60, pre-ripped hoodie. This one, to be exact:
Yes, it's $60. Yes, I've never wanted anything more. Perhaps the same God who grants us free air and catalogs will also grant me the strength to resist! Yeah, probably not.
*If you happen to be one of those perfectly bronzed and toned employees and are totally offended right now, just remember, anyone who reads Daddy Likey is a friend of mine. Maybe we could get together sometime and talk about a discount? Kidding! Kind of.