Amancio Sleeps with Me
Every night, as I slip into bed, there’s a persistent feeling, a silent weight in the darkness of my bedroom. It’s not the presence of a man, a lover, or even a ghost. It’s something more insidious, something that has seeped into my life with the same subtlety as a creeping addiction: Zara. And behind Zara, its creator, Amancio Ortega, who, without being physically present, seems to have infiltrated my daily existence, my choices, the way I look at myself in the mirror. Amancio sleeps with me.
In a woman’s life, there are different forms of love—or rather, different forms of dependency. Zara isn’t just a store; it’s the constant answer to needs I didn’t even know I had. Amancio has created something more than a clothing brand; he’s woven an invisible web that connects my most intimate desires to his inexhaustible supply. Over the years, I’ve learned to recognize that dependency, that almost unbearable comfort that comes with knowing there will always be a piece of clothing that understands me better than anyone in my life.
It’s as if Zara is an extension of my body, as if Amancio has found a way to translate my anxieties, my insecurities, into textures, into cuts, into colors that seem to speak directly to my soul. This relationship is one in which I’ve invested time, money, and perhaps, without realizing it, a part of my identity. And he, with his constant barrage of new items, his unique ability to create a need that didn’t exist before, has turned me into a passive spectator of my own desire.
I remember the first time I encountered Zara. It was like stepping into a different world, one where everything was possible, where each piece of clothing seemed to promise a better life, a more elegant existence, more control. That promise, I now know, is a well-calculated lie, a game we all play, where the price we pay is our own complicity in the endless cycle of buying and consuming. Amancio, that name that echoes faintly in the corners of my thoughts, has achieved what few men can: understanding me completely, anticipating my every desire, and providing a response that soothes me, even knowing that this response is a carefully crafted illusion.
He has taught me that in fashion, as in life, it’s the ephemeral that we value most. And yet, it’s that very fleetingness that traps me, keeps me hooked, with the idea that what’s coming next is even better than what I’ve imagined, that it will make me feel whole, if only for a moment. It’s a cycle of which I’m fully aware, but one from which I neither can, nor want, to escape.
So, night after night, I feel Amancio’s intangible presence. It’s not love, not even obsession; it’s something deeper—a mix of gratitude and resentment, of satisfaction and emptiness. Because in every Zara garment hanging in my closet, there’s a small piece of me, of my time, of my history, of what I’ve been through. Amancio sleeps with me, but in reality, it’s me who sleeps in the world he’s created for me—one of immediate desires. Even in that predictability, there’s an echo of what I’ve lost, without the silent influence of a man I never met, but who, in some way, has always been there, dictating the terms of this strange, intimate, and, ultimately, deeply revealing romance with Zara.
This isn’t just a personal reflection; it’s a shared experience for millions of women. Zara’s parent company, Inditex, reported revenues of nearly $33 billion in 2023, driven by the fast fashion giant’s ability to release up to 24 collections a year, a relentless pace that keeps us coming back for more. But beneath the surface, this constant pursuit of the new is not just a harmless indulgence. It’s a carefully engineered system designed to fuel a sense of perpetual inadequacy, a reminder that there’s always something missing, something only the next purchase can fix.
Amancio Ortega, once the richest man in Europe, may not be sleeping next to us, but his influence is ever-present. We’ve traded in long-term satisfaction for short-term fixes, and while the price tag may seem reasonable, the true cost is paid in our growing dependency on a cycle that never truly ends. The romance may be intoxicating, but like all affairs built on illusion, it leaves us yearning for something real, something lasting, something that a new dress can never truly provide.