When my sister and I went to New York last summer, we explored the Guggenheim, went to the top of the Empire State Building and strolled down Wall Street. What I didn’t expect was a chance encounter with fashion.

Or maybe it wasn’t so much a chance encounter as a planned, paid-for brainwashing.

In the Midwest, billboards are found by the sides of highways and interstates, usually announcing the next gas station. In New York City, they’ll put them anywhere. But don’t expect to find the Conoco logo — these billboards usually feature a giant, half-dressed J.Lo and the latest in expensive leather. This was no chance encounter — Louis Vuitton and J.Lo wanted my money.

Luckily, I’m cheap. Unluckily, I’m part of the target audience and my mind is mush waiting for brand-name superstars to shape it in any way they please.

J.Lo looked smug, staring down at me from the 25th floor of a 5th Avenue high-rise. “You know you want it,” she narrowed her eyes at me and held out a big white purse with a multicolored LV logo printed all over it. A chiseled male model with flowing brown locks stood next to her, toting what Seinfeld defines as a European carry-all.

I could immediately make out what he was trying to tell me: “I’ll love you if you buy one. So what if you have to sell your soul to afford it? You’ll own luxury leather, and then I’ll want to date you.”

Just as I was considering dumping my boyfriend to gain a French handbag, I looked up from the gum-covered sidewalk at the next billboard. This time, the color of the purse had changed to brown, J.Lo was closer to being naked, and European carry-all guy had lost his shirt. She was also sitting on his shoulder and he appeared to be enjoying it in a brooding model sort of way.

“Fine — cheat on me already,” I thought, looking up at him. “I don’t need one of your purses to be happy. Besides, it’s ugly.”

“It’s not a purse!” — he contorted his face into a Zoolander-esque pose — “It’s a European carry-all!”

After much consideration, I came to the only compromise my bank account would allow: I would buy a knockoff. After hunting through open-air stalls in Chinatown, I found The One. It didn’t even hint at being a knock-off, and I forked over the 20 bucks.

Back at the youth hostel, my sister and I inspected the purse. Opening it up, we found a brown cloth bag stamped with the LV logo, a longer strap to switch with the short strap and a dime-sized button with the LV logo attached to a string and card, notifying me of the inspection number and of the fact that my purse was cowhide leather with man-made interior lining.

Zippers touted the raised logo and the leather outside had the official Louis Vuitton stamp. Inside, the registered trademark tag was sewn on in a very official-looking way. I had the real thing.

“It’s still ugly, but at least it’s not a fake,” my sister said as she held the purse at arm’s length.

She had a point. If this purse were not an elite brand carried by celebrities and rich people, I wouldn’t want it. Why? Because it is ugly. But as of now, it’s uniquely ugly.

Back in Iowa, I showed it off to friends and family.

Common remarks from any male were “What the hell is that?,” “That is the ugliest thing I have ever seen!” and “You paid for it?”

My fashionable friend Jolene was the first to recognize and appreciate my purse. After Jolene, a whole slew of strangers have approached me, complimenting the purse and asking where I got it.

“In New York,” I say, doing my best to not add “someone hawked it to me on the street.”

So now I have a hot purse and I’m a bit of a liar. But at least I didn’t pay hundreds, or even thousands of dollars to get this far.