This past December I had the opportunity to spend a week in two of America’s a lot of popular ski resort towns.

Being someone who prefers the comforting warmth of a lot more tropical locales, I can’t say I was immediately thrilled by the thought of spending a week trekking through snow and ice, but I was warmed to the idea by the sincereness in my relatives’ voices when they’d initially extended the invitation three months prior.

“What the heck,” I thought. “While I personally don’t like to ski, my husband does, and I’ve always wanted to see what these resort towns’ hype was all about. Also, I’ll get the chance to spend some time with family and dress a little a lot more mountain chic. Ça va être amusant.”

Fast forward to mid-December and off I went to see what the beautiful Colorado Rockies had to offer.

When my husband and I finally arrived, we were in severe awe of how the mountains stood so proudly against the sky; Their jagged peaks and winding slopes were enough to make the greatest skeptic reconsider whether there was a God.

But we hadn’t come for the views. We came for merrymaking ﹘ something we’d now have to do on our own considering that my family had made a decision to bail on us at the last minute (on a trip that was their idea in the first place.)

The tickets were non-refundable so we adventured onward.

We spent the week wandering around, eating, drinking, and remarking on everything in sight. We browsed art galleries, gawked at the price of basic goods, and wondered how hiking in high elevation could still be this tough for those as physically active as ourselves.

At some point during the second to last day, we agreed that the area wasn’t our favorite destination, but we’d managed to take pleasure in ourselves nonetheless.

“Sorry, you came all this way and didn’t even get to go skiing,” I apologized to my husband while sipping an overpriced green tea.

“Whatever,” he replied. “Ski passes here in the us are too expensive anyway. We can just go back to the Alps next winter.”

“Yeah ok…” I replied as he got up to head towards the nearby taproom.

“Tu veux venir?” he asked while stretching.

“Nah, I’m gunna browse the shops even though everything is probably closed anyway,” I answered before he shrugged and walked away.

I spent the next hour browsing store windows, making mental notes of all the things to add to next year’s wishlist. Dior this and Van Cleef that, but at some point, even the allure of the Gucci Bamboo manage bags weren’t enough to keep me sticking out in the frigid air for much longer.

While walking back I found a consignment shop that appeared to be one of the few stores open on this quiet Sunday afternoon. and considering that the extreme effects of windburn had already begun to set in, I practically jumped at the chance to get out of the cold, even if only for a few moments.

Upon entering the shop I was met with the desk clerk’s equally frosty indifference. I didn’t know if she was worn out or bored or both, so I quietly made my way through the racks of secondhand stuff.

There were plenty of great things, but nothing that really piqued my interest ﹘ that is, until I saw it: a vintage Chanel flap bag in fantastic condition displayed behind protective glass. authenticity card and all.

Chanel single Flap Bag
via Fashionphile

$2,980

This discovery ecstatic me but as a certified purse aficionado, the list price of $2,300 nearly brought me to my knees. I waved the clerk over to immediately show me the bag’s interior.

Also in great condition!

I didn’t know whether to throw my credit scores card down or call my husband first or what, but I ultimately made a decision to be a responsible spouse and run it by him first.

“Sorry but we need to finish renovating the guest room,” he gently explained. “…and Christmas just passed and -”

“But it’s a good investment!” I whined while describing to him the ever-increasing prices of Chanel bags. “I could resell it for a lot more than double what the provided price is!”

“So if I agree and you get it, you’re going to sell it, right?” he asked over the rim of his beer glass.

Crickets.

“Sorry…maybe next time.”

And that was that. My designer dreams were destroyed at a moment’s notice by life’s obligations. That bag was one I’d always wanted and yet the only one that I couldn’t have. It’s the bag that got away.

Oh well, I guess. La prochaine fois peut-être.