Ew, is Mary actually writing a blog about profanity?? Of course not. It has always been a much cherished joke of mine that my favorite four letter word is actually: sale.
As a preface to the gentlemen reading this: if you are able to grasp the general theme of this blog, you will have made great strides in the quest to understand women. Well, maybe I should specify: you'll understand New York women.
It's now a known fact that when I get stressed out, I go shopping. It is not a well known fact that within my job there are two months out of the year that are classified as "busy season." These two months are December and June. Yes, June. Nevermind how or why these months have been so tragically distinguished, I will just sum it up by saying that in these two months the work flows at nearly double the rate it normally does, the phone rings off the hook, the email blings with irritating consistency, and the pressure generally registers off the meter. In order to assuage some of this tension, tonight I suddenly had the unmistakable yen to go shopping--and I knew better than to ignore it.
Thus, I walked myself up to Midtown. I will confess that my trip wasn't entirely spontaneous. I'd been coveting shoes that my friend from work, Mara, turned me on to. I had two leads: Lord and Taylor and Ninewest. When Lord and Taylor was a bust, I optimistically walked myself down to the nearest Ninewest (and yes, I know where nearly all of them are in Manhattan). What I came upon when I got there is something that makes every woman rise on her haunches: The store was preparing to close permanently. And you and I know, when a store prepares to do that, everything must go. Who am I not to offer to help in achieving this goal?
As I walked in, however, I immediately recognized all the symptoms of Shopping Carnage. If I wanted to walk out of here with a bargain, I thought, I would have to: watch my territory, be ready to defend what I'd rightfully claimed, and keep a stealthy eye towards whatever had been cast aside. This was mayhem. You would have thought they were selling the secret to eternal youth. Everything in the store was 40% off the marked price, so truthfully, what's the secret to eternal youth compared to that?! There were women pawing, clutching, and crouching (I put "crouching" in for anyone who was starting to fan themselves, heh heh heh). Immediately I went into battle-mode, which I pretty much exclusively reserve for shopping of this kind.
When entering the situation the name of the game is to feign calmness. The women in the "battlefield" who've already gotten their hands on what they wanted have entered a state of delirium, and we all know that a crazy woman is a force to be reckoned with. I knew I was entering a scene where supplies were dwindling, so there was not much shoe to go around. I immediately identified a pair that I had been eyeing, but could most certainly live without at full price. Knowing that I'd screwed up the opportunity to obtain this shoe at a rock bottom price, on the other hand, was something I most certainly could not live with. Meanwhile, I was also peering at shoes that appeared to be tossed aside. Supplies were that dire that I also wanted to see what I could get my hands on if I were simply smart about it. In some cases, these shoes were hovering in the general vicinity of women, and it was not clear whether or not they were actually done with them. These instances called for stealth. This is a carnal rule of shopping this kind of sale: if you try to take what another woman is even considering-she will bear claws. If she, in turn, officially shows signs of walking away, you pounce. Go for what you want to consider (and hell, do that in Life, too). Yet, in the end, I decided on a pair of patterned, open-toed, three inch heels that I had even obtained fair and square. They were 40% off, appeared comfortable (though take note that a "comfortable heel" is in fact an oxymoron), and could just be the shoe I end up conquering the world in.
A lot of men wonder why we lot bother with heels. I think there are several reasons for woman's obsession with heels. For one, contrary to what you may think, we aren't born knowing how to walk in them. I remember trying high heels on for the first time as a nine year old while visiting my friend Sophia's house. It was the strangest sensation ever...my toes were still on the ground...but the heels of my feet were about eighty feet away and you better believe my heels missed my toes! Being able to handle a heel takes a significant amount of grace mixed with athleticism. Yeah, that's right, I said ath-let-Ehh-cism. After nearly three years of taking a spin class 2-3 times per week, I finally have the stamina (and the calf muscles!) to handle a Heel. Another reason, in my own case, is that at age 25, I've arrived at the height I'm going to stay at (until the Wonderful World of Osteoporosis hits and it gets ever worse..) and if I want to feign some inches every now and again it is my right. I was also going to put something in here about heels as phallic symbols but then I decided it would be a little over the top. Oh. Wait. Oops.
And so, with bag in hand, I zoomed my way home on the subway. As I was walking towards the stairs at my stop, a woman with a slightly glazed look passed me....carrying a DSW bag. A second or two later, another woman passed with an Aerosoles bag happily in tow. And I smiled, because I now had a slight bit of proof to back up something I'd been suspecting: that all across the island tonight hundreds of women left work...and went shoe shopping.
I once met a man with a sense of adventure
He was dressed to thrill wherever he went
He said "let's make love on a mountain top..
under the stars on a big hard rock."
I said "in THESE shoes?!"
I don't think so.
-Kristy McColl
