Another Saturday
“I shouldn’t even know what a fucking charger is, ok!?!”
The sentence reads more mean-spirited than it sounded at the time. I mean, we were laughing over burgers and beers at the location of our first date, Coffee Shop in Union Square, but I meant it. No dude should know words like duvet, demitasse, or doily.
Or maybe we should.
If I expect Abbi to let me be me — ice cream for dinner, dishes in the sink, clothes at the foot of the bed, rehearsals, recordings and rock shows — then maybe the least I can do is get behind dinner parties, art museums, and Home Depot.
Which explains my Saturday afternoon.
***
5:15 pm. Sacks Fifth Avenue. Up escalator. I’ve dropped fifteen pounds of wedding stuff from an a.m. Soho excursion at home and come to Midtown to meet Abbi. I am woefully underdressed in my Des Moines t-shirt, torn jeans, a navy pinstriped sportcoat and black Chucks — but I like it.
My objectives, the last two major items on my list: dress shirt for rehearsal dinner, dress shoes (“Not J. Crew,” Abbi strongly suggests) for ceremony.
Browsing ends abruptly in Men’s Shoes (8th Floor) when I turn a pair over to discover that the only ones I like — one pair in a thousand: black straight toe buckles — run $690.
The trip ends half a success when I spot a periwinkle and chocolate check point-collared dress shirt so vibrant it actually makes me smile. I exit Sacks $165 lighter (or $595 heavier if you consider the well-tailored cordoroy sportcoat I leave behind).
***
6:01 pm. Bergdorf Goodman Beauty Department. The estrogen is palpable as we descend on the escalator. Scanning a powder green room roughly half the size of a football field and populated entirely by chattering, prattling, and giggling women, I am reminded that are social creatures.
I am way, way out of my comfort zone, lost in some Girls Club for which I scarcely know the password, but I am in awe.
‘Women are so social,’ I think as I retreat to a quiet corner. ‘This is why they rule the world.’
Oddly enough, though, I don’t spot one truly beautiful woman (my wife to be notwithstanding) the entire time I stand there.
***
6:56 pm. Bergdorf Goodman Men’s Shoes. The only pair I like, it ends up, are Prada. $610.
“Hand made in Italy,” the salesman says. “Benchmark shoes, son. Benchmark shoes.”
We call it a day.
