I’m really not sure why I stopped in today. There hasn’t been anything good in any of your stores, even after the much-celebrated Patrick Robinson took the reigns. Every time I take a peek at your clothes, I expect what you used to be, slightly preppy basics, but you’ve taken this odd sack dress and floral patterns turn that I really don’t like.
I know this must hurt you. I know I haven’t spent money at one of your registers since I bought some ill-fitting jeans and a shrunken grandpa cardigan two years ago. I know you miss me, and feel my absence sharply in your forlorn dressing rooms.
But did you have to stoop this low? You know my weakness for grey tote bags; must you exploit it so callously? Especially when the details are so thoughtfully added, the yellow suede contrast so soft and alluring. Must you go to such lengths to win me back?
Surely, you must, because you also have gracing your walls the perfect pair of striped jeans. You who know I cannot afford a pair of $60 jeans put them in the window to tantalize me, merely to win me back into your good graces.
And then, just when I think I might make it back out into the Gapless world, you ambush me with sandals. Bar one collaboration, your shoes have been ill designed and even more ill fitting. But you knew–oh, you knew– that the surest way to lure me back into your clutches was with a pseudo-hippy sandal, reminiscent of a gladiator draped in flowers. You knew that I would find it difficult to resist such a sure sign of spring.
Oh, Gap, why must you do this to me? I thought we were finished, through forever. Didn’t you once give the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech? Didn’t we decide this was for the best? And yet you expect me to come running back to you, wallet open.
I cannot– must not– give in. I must keep my determination strong. Until you can prove to me that your change of style is true, that you can maintain this delightful improvement, I will not return. But fear not, dear Gap, I will keep watching and waiting. I have highest hopes.